


In the Den of Thieves

by CalamityCain



Category: Jesus Christ Superstar - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Friendship, Gang Rape, Kidnapping, M/M, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Orgy, Partners in Crime, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:35:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29393490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalamityCain/pseuds/CalamityCain
Summary: Jesus is abducted and delivered to the altar of a secret cult-like gathering in a ruthless bid for power. He wakes the day after with little memory of what happened to him, but as glimpses of the crimes that took place unfold, his faithful friend Simon is determined to get to their rotten core in an act of retribution.
Relationships: Jesus Christ/Judas Iscariot
Comments: 33
Kudos: 6





	1. Oblation

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Mandy for being a fellow whump/trauma lover, and to Saffiaan for helping create the snotty, ambitious Jonathan.  
> (For those interested, he is the tall lanky blond guy in "This Jesus Must Die"; the same actor also appears as Pilate's assistant in "Pilate's Dream" as well as one of the reporters in "Confrontation".)

  
Admission into the Echelon — the circle of influential personages who could determine the outcome of entire schemes and stratagems with the drop of a name or a few well-placed words — was a procedure for which there were no written rules. An ambitious young man of Jonathan’s particular nature could only lust at the opportunities afforded by such a network. To go from orbiting its fringe to being included in its glow and all the glory it afforded came with a price. One that money alone would not pay.

“Any rich man’s son can strut in demanding to be treated with the same silver-spoon privilege he grew up with,” Annas said as if he himself had not been born into such similar circumstances. Jonathan's direct superior was a short squinty-eyed man whose high grating voice regularly dished out reminders of his subordinate’s station. “It takes something _more_ to make it into the ranks of the worthy.”

Jonathan outwardly bowed to his statement, even as he chafed beneath the man’s figurative foot on his neck. He longed to be free of it; to serve under someone deserving of his tireless dedication. He longed for the attentions of Joseph Caiaphas himself. To have the man’s paternal smile directed at _him_ instead of the squinting smirking sycophant in his way, gracing him with the recognition Jonathan knew he deserved. And after much delay in the form of veiled dismissals and vague statements, Annas, evidently deeming him worthy at last, let him in on the secret: the means to his complete acceptance into Caiaphas’ coveted Echelon.

“Like the old bloodthirsty gods, greatness demands sacrifice,” said Annas. “The good news is that you are not the sacrifice, but the one who delivers it.”

“Tell me more.” Jonathan tried to modulate the eagerness in his tone. He wanted to look keen, not desperate. To men such as the one he currently answered to, desperation was a weakness to be exploited. And Jonathan was getting tired of being among the exploited. Tired of all the shoes he'd had to lick only to move ahead a slow inch at a time.

His moment to step into those shoes had come at last. And he wasn't about to let a small thing like morality get in the way of what was rightfully his.

As Annas divulged the details of the task ahead, he realised just how deep the secrecy of Caiaphas’ inner circle ran, and how fortunate he was to have persisted in knocking at its doors. The Echelon gathered once every two years at a location disclosed strictly by word of mouth. Jonathan was to bring the man he had been tasked to retrieve to its doors, and by doing so gain admission into its highly guarded sanctum. “If you fail,” added Annas, “I suggest you clear out your desk the next day and seek an alternative career elsewhere.”\

Jonathan smiled coldly in return, belying none of his anxiety. “I’ll see you there. Ten nights from now.”

~

The cake for Matthew’s birthday party was a glorious dark chocolate affair layered with fresh raspberries and frosted with cheese buttercream and toasted coconut flakes. Jesus and John, Matthew's boyfriend, had spent most of the day baking and assembling it, wanting to ensure the surprise had every bit the intended impact. They needn’t have fretted; Matthew was moved to tears, which had the spillover effect of making everyone emotional. 

The neighbourhood pub was a default they often fell back on when no one could decide on a place to meet or host a gathering. The bartender, Farrah, was Mary’s old college mate and occasionally threw in drinks or snacks on the house that they had long since stopped half-heartedly refusing. Tonight she had thrown in an extra-large beer bucket at happy hour price, and the ensuing merriment was perfect in every possible way save for one detail.

It took some time for Jesus to place the lanky, sandy-haired guy in the corner whose eyes had been aimed at their merry little gathering on and off. He couldn’t pin down why the man’s face disturbed him until he remembered seeing that very same face during one of one of the headlining PR campaigns fronted by Joseph Caiaphas that served to mask corruption with surface acts of charity. For much of it, this sharply styled and vaguely obnoxious personage had been present along with Caiaphas’ default right hand man Annas. Seeing him on screen or from a distance was one thing. But his presence here in this familiar and beloved place was vaguely unpleasant. Still, he had every right to be here as a paying customer. And there was nothing Jesus or anyone could do about it.

After a minute or two of being irritably perturbed, he slowly let himself be pulled back into the halo of laughter and teasing, and the enthusiastic cheering-on surrounding the impromptu arm wrestling match Simon and Mary had somehow found themselves in. John was trying to film the whole thing on his phone, but James’ enthusiastic flailing kept knocking him off course.

Jesus finally felt compelled to cut the tussle short when neither of the participants would concede defeat after being locked in a draw that left them increasingly red-faced and breathless. “Stop hogging the limelight; this is Matt’s party.” He pushed a large platter of burger sliders into the centre of the table. “I ordered six different kinds of fillings. Matt, you get first pick.” He swatted Simon’s eager hand aside.

“I uhm, might need to pass on this round. I stole a big bite of that absolutely divine cake.” Matthew pointed apologetically to where he had sliced into the tempting confection while everyone’s attention was diverted by the wrestling match.

“We were supposed to save that for dessert!” Mary rebuked half-heartedly; for no one could ever fault Matthew much for anything. As for Simon, he took advantage of the transgression by adding to it, slicing himself some cake and stuffing it into his mouth where it joined the half-chewed mini burger. “You’re disgusting,” John commented, taking a bite of his own lamb-stuffed slider.

“At least you don’t have to live with disgusting,” James said. He was Simon’s roommate and ‘live-in fuckbuddy’ as he liked to call himself.

“Wow. You’re not getting _anything_ for the next week just for that.”

James snorted. “As if you can keep your hands off me for longer than twenty-hour hours.” Simon’s prodigious sex drive was legendary among his friends by now, and a collective shrug of agreement with James rippled through them, causing Simon to clutch his chest in his customary dramatisation of betrayal.

“Excuse me. Which one of you is Jesus?” asked a waitress bearing a tray of shot glasses. She was new; the regular staff knew all six of them all by name. 

“That’s me.” Jesus smiled bemusedly. “Whoever sent this got the wrong person, though. It’s not _my_ birthday —”

“Oh, no, these are from an admirer of yours. A big fan. Wouldn’t give a name, but he said that this one is yours.” She set the glass with a cherry on top in front of him.

“Wow. Social justice warriors getting love for once,” John marvelled half-mockingly. “Who’d have thought?” For all his popularity, Jesus also received a fair amount of Twitter-fuelled hate for his activist endeavours. It was the main reason he didn’t check his notifications anymore. It helped that his attention was usually occupied by the more immediate threat of corrupt lawmakers clamping down on his activity.

“I don’t know. Should we be accepting drinks from strangers?” Mary frowned, trying to scrutinise the content of the shot glasses.

“I’ll have yours if you don't want it," Simon volunteered.

James nudged the birthday boy. “Matthew, our man of the hour. What say you?”

"Oh well. Live a little, I guess?" Matthew raised his glass. 

"It's free alcohol. I'm not throwing away _my_ shot," John declared as they clinked glasses. Any other vague misgivings were overridden by the camaraderie hanging in the air and the homely surroundings of a pub they had patronised countless times. They raised a toast and downed the salt-laced glasses before digging into a large basket of spicy fried wings.

Jesus was licking the remnants of grease off his fingers from his second chicken wing when the ground began to shift below him. He'd had less than two beers before the shot; it shouldn't have hit him that hard, and certainly not nearly twenty minutes after downing it. He gasped as his fingers elongated before his eyes; he blinked, and the illusion was gone. 

Someone, either James or John, laughed beside him, the sound overly loud and discordant. His heart began pounding like a war drum in his chest as he gripped the table’s edge in an effort to hang on to reality, which was becoming all slippery, like melting butter beneath his hands. The tightening anxiety in the pit of his stomach made him nauseous. He rose slowly so as not to keel over and announced that he had to use the bathroom. 

“You okay, man?” James was clasping his shoulder. “You look a bit off.”

“Just a bit of stomach trouble. Come save me if I’m not out in ten or fifteen minutes.” He managed a weak smile. 

“Alright. Take it easy.”

He managed to walk in a fairly normal fashion before his knees suddenly gave a few steps away from the washroom. Someone’s arms were catching him, slender but wiry and strong as they led him away. “I’ve got you,” said a soothing voice next to his ear. “You’ll be okay. Steady, now.”

The pub was shifting and tilting around him, melting into smears of sound and colour. “I just need to...to....” His train of thought dissipated, lost in a haze of confusion. “Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere safe. Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone harm you.”

Something about the situation felt terribly wrong, but he had no words with which to object, nor strength to resist as the arms around him steered and dragged him along like a rag doll. _Don’t take me too far,_ he wanted to say. _They won’t be able to find me._ Except he could no longer move his tongue, which had become a dead slab of flesh in his mouth.

He was being passed into the arms of another. The ground disappeared from beneath his feet. The night air briefly brushed his skin, followed by the slide of a leather seat against his cheek. There was the sound of a car door slamming shut. It felt like the lid of a coffin sealing him in. 

_Stop. Let me out. My friends will be looking…_ Fleeting thoughts that barely made sense slipped in and out of his fogged brain. It was so hard to stay awake. The very air around him was heavy, like a hundred invisible weights on his limbs and head and shoulders. His eyelids fell shut against his will, and then he was falling downward into a darkness that swallowed him whole.

~

Jonathan watched in quiet triumph as the lovely young insurgent collapsed like a marionette released from its strings into the arms of the strongman he had been furnished with for this retrieval mission. The grunt with boulder-like biceps carried the unconscious Jesus to the waiting car and slid him into the back seat, shutting the door firmly before sliding into the passenger seat.

The night had unfolded in a series of fortuitous incidents almost perfectly placed to suit his intentions. Jonathan was high on elation as he drove through a light drizzle that cast the night in a soft gold wherever his headlights shone, following the directions issued by the automated voice of his GPS. Surely the luck he had experienced was a sign that fortune was on his side, smiling on his ambitions. The first strike in his favour had been finding out from his hired spy the two opportune dates on which he could acquire his mark in a minimally invasive manner (that is, one that would not meet with more than the barest amount of resistance). 

After a string of sleepless nights spent in deliberation, he had chosen the one that fell on the very same date as the Echelon’s gathering. Risky, to be sure — but no riskier, perhaps, than attempting to keep a captive alive and well for several days. He could hardly spend all his time playing babysitter; he had a day job, after all. Annas kept him busy enough with tasks ranging form the menial to the arduous, answering emails and phone calls and filing reports. But he gladly suffered it all, knowing the reward that awaited him at the end.

“Do I have you for the night, or are you taking off after this delivery?” he asked the grunt next to him.

“Only till the dropoff. After that you’re on your own.” The syllables were clipped and unfeeling.

“Fine by me.” He threw another sidelong glance at the man, wondering where on earth Annas and company found such characters. The lumbering thug looked straight from the pages of Frank Miller’s Sin City, all frightening muscle and soundless menace. Would he, too, eventually wield such privileges some day as part of a higher sphere that lesser men could only dream of penetrating?

He heard the faint murmurs of distress coming from the back seat and tilted the rearview mirror to take a look at his captive, whose lips were parting to emit a string of faint moans. Jesus had risen to a semi-conscious state and was struggling to stay there. It was a losing battle; his breathing was laboured and his eyes remained shut. Jonathan felt a twitch of worry. He had measured the colourless liquid precisely before bottling the dosage he had dispensed into the cherry-topped shot glass. Just enough to keep the sacrificial lamb subdued until he had been delivered to the altar. If the drug had adverse effects and sent his captive into a coma instead, the career he had worked so hard to build would be forfeit. And if one of the adverse effects was death…

Jonathan was prepared to step on many people on his way up, but actually killing one of them was not ideal. The last thing he wanted was to be stained with murder before he ascended to such a position where he would enjoy the immunity of the truly powerful. At a red traffic light, he kept watching Jesus until he saw the latter's breathing even out and his dark mop of hair spill limply onto the leather seat, helpless against the drug coursing through his veins.

Jonathan made sure to check that he was still breathing when they pulled up in front of an unlit building with a blank granite facade and towering doors. The strongman who remained unnamed wordlessly lifted Jesus from the car and stood waiting with Jonathan as he issued the passcode given him earlier in the day.

The doors swung open just wide enough to admit two. "We'll take it from here," he was informed by the tall statuesque woman whose face was as much of a blank as Jonathan's grunt. A well-built man wearing a shining black Anubis mask stepped forth from the shadows and took the unconscious man into his own arms before turning and walking down the dim corridor that stretched on seemingly forever. "Follow me," said the woman. Jonathan heard the doors close behind him, and his heart began thumping excitedly. They strode silently in the wake of the man carrying Jesus until they reached the entrance of a chamber where the woman produced a black pantalone mask from the folds of her robe and handed it to him. "No one may enter unmasked," she told him in a voice that brooked no objection. He nodded and put it on, the satin lining sensually caressing his cheeks. The protruding front of the carnival mask left his chin uncovered but obscured the rest of his face.

Out of habit, he slid out his phone to check for messages, planning to turn it off before he entered. He noticed then that there was an utter absence of any signal.

The Amazonian woman noticed his actions. "This place is made to block all data and phone signals," she said with the smallest of smiles. "I should also warn you that the last person to take pictures of the proceedings within these walls was never heard from again."

He nodded and tucked the device firmly back in his pocket. "Understood." With a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and entered the chamber.

~

James had been properly panicked perhaps thrice in his whole lifetime, being of a naturally amiable disposition that was enhanced by the high-grade grass he regularly smoked. He found himself gripped by the rare bout of anxiety when he realised Jesus had disappeared without a trace, saddled with guilt for being the last person to have spoken to him.

 _Come save me if I’m not out in ten or fifteen minutes,_ he had said, half in jest. Except James shouldn't have waited. "I knew he wasn't feeling too good. I knew, and yet I let him go." _Stupid, stupid, STUPID._ Simon's arm was around his, stopping him from falling apart with useless self-blame. 

"Alright. Where do we start looking?" asked John, hands balled into fists to hide his trembling fingers. Beside him, Matthew's eyes were wide with fear and dismay, wandering now and then to the cake that had been so lovingly baked and assembled in Jesus' kitchen.

"Do we file a missing persons report?" he whispered. Mary shook her head. "You're only considered 'missing' after twenty-four hours." Her mouth was set in a grim line. She had been calling Jesus' phone on and off, knowing after the first ten calls that it was useless to hope he would pick up on the eleventh. And yet her finger still hovered unconsciously over the screen, wanting to hit the number just one more time.

"How about we blast out a message online?" Simon asked somewhat needlessly. He was already in the midst of uploading an alert with a picture of Jesus on all the available social media platforms.

"Might as well, I guess." James started pacing again the way he had done after they had frantically grilled the bartender, waiters and janitor for their last sighting of their missing friend. As they were getting ready to leave, the new waitress suddenly let loose an exclamation.

“Wait, I remember! He was headed to the back entrance with the same guy who sent you the shots.” She tensed a little, awkward from the five pairs of eyes fixed on her, but continued: “I thought it a bit strange that he had ordered six glasses for himself, but then he told me after I served him to deliver them to your table. And he…”

“And he what?” John prompted impatiently.

“Well, he specifically asked for a maraschino cherry on one of them. And told me to tell you it was meant for Jesus."

It was Simon's turn to start pacing. "Something about this is very suspicious."

"Can you describe this man?" Mary asked the waitress. "Did he...did they look like they were friends?"

"I assumed Jesus knew him. He looked a bit...woozy, and the man was helping him out the door. Probably to get some air."

James sagged into a chair, his face pale with dread. "I just called him again. His phone has gone dead."

~

Jesus awoke with a relentless pounding in his head, feeling vaguely sore all over. He was lying on a narrow bed in a small windowless room with no recollection of how he came to be here...wherever ‘here’ was. 

He was also, for reasons he preferred not to contemplate, completely naked.

As the haze of numbness faded, he started shivering, filled with a growing dread that started in the pit of his belly and crawled all the way up his throat. There were bruises on his thigh and what looked like rope burns on his wrists and ankles. And he was aching, throbbing in a way that alarmed him. had He felt sick and terrified and _used_.

A thin layer of sweat had broken out all over his unclothed body when the ringing of his phone startled him. It was lying on a stack of clothes — _his_ clothes, neatly folded on an ottoman beside the bed. An awful reminder that someone had removed them while he was unconscious and done things to him he had no memory of. 

He fumbled for the ringing phone, his trembling hands struggling to answer the call. “Simon?” His voice was a hoarse whisper. He realised that his throat was sore.

“Jesus…? That you?” Simon sounded as close to real panic as Jesus had ever heard him, which was frightening in its own right. “Where the _hell are you?”_

“I-I don’t know. I’m in some...I-I don’t know whose room this is. I don’t remember anything.” 

“Are you feeling okay? Can you stand, walk?” 

He slid off the bed and stumbled around the narrow space. “Yes.” Then a wave of chills that left him weak made him tumble to the floor. Simon heard the sound of his fall. “Jesus?? Stay with me.” His phone had skidded into the nearest wall, and he heard Simon’s alarmed voice calling him. “Jesus, are you alright??”

 _No. I’m not alright. I’m stuck in a nightmare and nothing makes sense._ “I’m naked,” he whispered, curling up on the floor and trying to calm the tremors that had nothing to do with cold. “There are marks...bruises...I don’t know how they got there.”

“Can you turn on your GPS and send me your location? I’ll come over right now. I’m bringing James with me.”

“Alright.” He was reluctant to end the call and do as Simon said, feeling like the familiar voice was the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity. As if sensing his need for constant assurance, Simon called again minutes later as he was pulling on his clothes. 

“Hey. James here. Simon is using my phone because his battery’s low and he doesn’t want the GPS to die midway there.” James’ tone shifted, turned soft with concern. “You okay?”

For some reason the gentleness of James’ voice made something inside him crumble, and he started sobbing. “Hey. Hey...it’ll be alright.” His friend sounded like he was on the verge of tears himself. “Look, J...I’m sorry. For not...for letting you go alone yesterday night. I should have —”

“No. It’s fine. It’s not your fault.” He drew a shuddering breath in an effort to calm his sobs.

“You sound kinda bad. Are you in, like, pain?”

“Not really. My throat is sore, but I’m fine otherwise. I guess. I don’t know.” A surge of bile crept up his gut, and the vertigo was followed by the room spinning until he could no longer stand and landed painfully on his elbows and knees. 

He heard James, then Simon, calling his name repeatedly. But before he could answer, the spinning intensified, making him unbearably nauseous. He threw up onto the floor until he felt exhausted and emptied out. Each violent spasm made his ribs hurt as he ejected the contents of his gut all over the wood surface. With the last of his strength, he crawled away from the pool of vomit before collapsing and passing out.

~

_A sonorous drumbeat echoed off a cavernous ceiling. All around him were a hum of voices, deep and masculine and threatening in their numbers. His eyelids were heavy, but he managed to open them a crack to see the blurred forms of an ornate iron chandelier above him from which hung countless crystal teardrops. He had been stripped bare, his naked limbs and back lying on what felt like silk-draped stone._

_There was the hiss of fabric from the swirling robes worn by the two figures circling him like birds of prey. His arms were being lifted above his head, rope encircling his wrists. The restraints seemed redundant; he could barely move more than his fingers, and his limbs were immovable stone. Still, it would have been deliciously sensual if not for the feeling of being so terribly exposed, being watched by what felt like hundreds of eyes._

_Someone’s hand parted his thighs, slithered between and beneath, and slid inside him with oil-slicked fingers. He gasped at the sudden violation. He opened his mouth to cry out, but nothing emerged. The fingers were stretching him out, preparing him for what was to come. What he was utterly helpless to stop. He saw the masked figures approaching at the ominous toll of a distant bell — and the command of a deep voice that sounded terribly familiar…_


	2. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More post-rape trauma, because why not + The friends gain a lead on Jonathan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter, I made the mistake of labelling Jonathan’s mask as a domino, when it should have been a pantalone. I’ve since amended the error.

  
He jerked awake with the smell of leather against his face. His blood ran cold at a vague memory of being trapped and immobilised in the back of a car. But it was broad daylight, and Simon and James were present, one of them slowly lifting him into an upright position.

“Thank the gods you’re alive,” Simon muttered, his look of naked agitation at odds with the blasé front Jesus was so used to. He wanted to thank his two friends, to ask if the rest were alright. But words would not come. It was as if his thoughts were locked in an impenetrable shell. As if this unreality would somehow right itself if he did not speak a word for as long as he occupied it.

With some help he stumbled into Simon’s house, nodding mutely when he was asked if he would like something to eat. A glass of juice was being pushed into his hands, and he very nearly dropped it on the floor before managing to grip it, half convinced it was an illusion. The cold liquid was soothing against his dry throat. He barely tasted the stuffed bun he bit into, registering faintly the sweet dark red filling. Some kind of jam or bean paste. James was saying something to him, but he could make out only snatches of words. Simon’s voice, sharper and louder, cut through the haze a little more effectively. Still, he had to repeat himself over for Jesus to finally grasp what he was saying.

“Can you remember anything from last night? The last thing that happened before you blacked out?”

Jesus closed his eyes, weary despite having slept like the dead for the entire journey. He tried to speak, tried to tell them that he knew nothing except suddenly feeling like his limbs were made of lead and how he could barely keep his eyes open as he was led away and pushed into a car. How the world had gone black and swallowed him and spat him out into a different mirror-world where nothing was right and he couldn’t even trust his own memory. 

"Listen," Simon said, his voice unusually gentle, a hand on Jesus' back. "There is the possibility that you were…sexually assaulted. You _know_ there is. No, listen, it's gonna be okay." Jesus was shaking his head adamantly as his eyes began to sting. "You were drugged. Your shot was spiked. You know that, right?"

His face was burning as he tasted the salt of his own tears. Simon's arms were squeezing him in a hug. "What I'm trying to say is, you should probably get tested. There might still be...traces of whoever did this to you…"

"No," Jesus managed to choke out, the first word he had spoken since he was found. 

"We can nail them down, you know. The people who did these awful things."

"And then what?" He couldn't envision following up on whatever the results yielded, to have to testify against the perpetrators, reliving his trauma repeatedly in the uncaring eyes of the law that in the end had left so many victims in the dirt. The very thought made him sick.

Simon squeezed his hand. "At least get tested for...for STDs. Not right now, but later. I'll go with you. You never know _—_ "

_"NO."_ The word left his mouth cracked and ugly with denial, and he felt a new wave of nausea overwhelm him. He shoved Simon away with strength he didn't know he had, and stumbled to the bathroom where he emptied whatever he had eaten into the toilet. Wishing with each heave that he could cleanse himself of the things that had happened (and that he refused to give name or shape to). He pulled the flush, rinsed out his mouth and then sank to the floor, squeezing his eyes shut as if willing the world to right itself. 

_There might still be traces of whoever did this._ Simon’s words rang all too true, and he loathed himself for being unable to accept them. He wanted to escape the violated shell of his body and the ugliness of what it had been subject to. A fit of sobs shook him from head to toe as he curled up against the wall. His palms felt like ice. He was getting dizzy all over again and his head was pounding as it had when he had first woken up naked and alone.

A hand was cradling his neck, warm palms against his clammy skin. “It’ll be okay. We’re here with you.” James and Simon were lifting him off the bathroom floor; he was on the verge of swooning, a dead weight in their arms. Everything was enveloped in a haze of grey until he felt the softness of the couch against his back and a blanket being pulled over his shoulders.

“I need a shower,” he rasped.

"Later, when you can stand again. I'll get you some fresh clothes."

His body's longing to escape wakefulness left him unable to object. As he started slipping away, he remembered snatches of the birthday gathering his sudden absence had ruined, and felt unreasonably guilty. “I’m sorry for ruining the party,” he said blearily.

James was saying something in reply, but the haze was creeping in again, and he wanted nothing more than to let it consume him. Sound and vision faded into nothing as he sank into the welcoming dark.  
  
  
  


Simon dropped into the sagging armchair opposite the sofa where Jesus lay in slumber with streaks of drying tears on his face. He was tired to the bone, having barely rested ever since Jesus’ disappearance. After a series of increasingly desperate calls and a night spent chasing several false leads, he had parked by the side of a gas station somewhere in the a.m. seeking some scrap of solace in paper cups of hot greasy coffee with too much sugar in it.

Somewhere into his second cup, he had received a call from James, and another from Mary, both asking where he was (knowing better than to ask if he’d had any more luck than them). Twenty minutes later, they sat numbly in the small diner next to the gas station picking at a heap of potato wedges that soon went cold from neglect. 

They kept each other company through that sleepless pre-dawn and talking to John over two phone calls. According to him, Matthew had been beside himself, dissolving into tears while slicing up the cake his missing friend had baked to store in the fridge. "He was torn to pieces insisting it was his fault," John had confided, sounding close to breaking himself. "That he shouldn't have accepted the shots."

"That's bullshit and you know it," James replied softly, he himself still guilt-ridden under the weight of each passing hour. “Tell him he’s not to blame. Put him on so we can yell at him until he believes it.”

Before Mary left, the three of them shared a joint inside James' Volkswagen van and parted ways, as if lighting a candle in prayer that their friend would turn up alive and well. Simon had meant to go home after that. But he couldn't bring himself to, instead falling into a fitful doze five minutes from his residence at roadside to the banter of a podcast he didn't register a word of. The first vestiges of daylight were staining the sky a washed-out blue-grey when he got out of the car for a cigarette. He seldom smoked except as an outlet for boredom or nerves. Without being fully conscious of it, the fidgeting fingers of his free hand dialled the number he had called countless times in the past several hours.

And then Jesus had actually answered.

Simon had witnessed a friend's experience with 'date rape' drugs before in the corner of a small noisy club he used to be fond of, but ceased patronising after the incident. She had gone missing for less than twenty minutes while he and the rest of the gang were yelling rude jokes at each other after chasing the fiery trail of their flaming Lamborghinis. When she returned, she sounded oddly incoherent in a way that was different from her usual drunken banter. Confused and disoriented, she passed out cold shortly after with her legs sprawled on Simon’s lap. Later she would tell him that she had woken up in a toilet stall with her bra and panties askew and cigarette burns on her thighs.

He had been about nineteen years old then. He and another girl had stayed with her for the rest of the night and made her breakfast and held her as she cried. The week after, she steeled herself to get tested for both pregnancy and venereal diseases, and was thankfully free of both.

Like Jesus, she had refused to subject herself to DNA swabs. Instead she had gone home, washed the remnants of her trauma away, and moved on with her life. Simon didn’t blame her then, as he didn’t blame Jesus now. Even crueller than rape itself was the deeply flawed system surrounding and often perpetuating it. And Jesus had yet to fully come to terms with whatever had been forced upon him.

Simon could only guess at what the man had been through, but he suspected with dread that it was far worse than a random quickie with some dirtbag in a bathroom stall. He had seen the marks on Jesus’ wrists. He recognised them from his own forays into bondage and kink, and knew that whoever preyed upon his friend had done so with deliberation. When he and James found their missing friend in what looked like semi-abandoned servant's quarters beside a huge colonial mansion, the latter had looked inches from death _—_ cold and unmoving, with bloodless lips _—_ despite suffering no signs of grievous harm. He had jerked briefly alive, staring at them with unseeing eyes before lapsing back into a comatose state as they carried him to Simon's car.

Contemplating the terrible possibilities of whatever have taken place was futile at the moment. Jesus was safe, their friends had been informed, and Simon's body was screaming at him for rest. At long last, he gave in to its demands and sank further into the chair, falling asleep seconds after closing his eyes.

~

_The smell of incense was suffocating, perfumed smoke trailing from bronze biers to thicken the air. It crept into his nose and made his eyes water as warm tongues painted swirls on his naked skin, lapping and molesting each intimate crevice, drinking him in like thirsty hounds in love with the taste of his flesh._

_“Behold the fallen king,” said the voice that came from behind a pharaoh’s mask in midnight-blue and gold. “The leader must now lead by serving.” He could not see the face, but he knew that voice. Caiaphas’ eyes met his from behind the painted eye holes. “You have found your true place at last. Not a king, but a slave.”_

_The hungry mouths with their lascivious tongues withdrew to make way for three stately figures clad in shadow and silk. They parted the front of their robes to reveal bared chests and thighs and flushed half-hardened cocks that made him whimper in dread. When the first of the men mounted him, blocking out the light from above, a surge of fear kicked movement into his limbs at last; not that it did any good. He wished for the oblivion that had left him just when he needed it._

_The man's fingers continued the work that had begun earlier, loosening him just enough to afford him some small mercy. And then the flushed cock was pushing into him, and his vision blurred as tears stung his eyes, his throat and chest tight with panic at the realisation that this was only the first of many to come…_

~

Jesus stood for an eternity beneath the hot blast streaming from the showerhead, hoping he wasn’t racking up Simon’s water bill in his attempt to drown out the vague yet terrifying memory of faceless men and scented smoke and a mask with painted eyes. He didn’t know where these images came from, these murky yet vivid scenes. Trying to remember only made him feel raw and brittle, and twisted with guilt for washing away the traces that might have led to answers. Whoever had taken him and used him so should not be allowed to go free. And yet… 

“Coward.” His whisper echoed against the tiles as he leaned his forehead against their cool unjudging silence, staying there until the sting of shame subsided.

He emerged from the bathroom dressed in Simon’s clothes to see Mary engrossed in conversation with James and Simon. “Farrah says her waitress found him,” he overheard her saying. She was referring to the bartender of the pub they had been celebrating Matthew’s birthday at. “The man who was with Jesus when he disappeared.”

Jesus froze at the edge of the living room just as the three of them turned to see him. Mary’s smile was filled with sympathy, but not pity, for which he was grateful. She walked over to where he was rooted to the spot and hugged him. “How are you feeling?” she asked softly.

He leaned into her embrace, suddenly hungry for closeness and comfort. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. There was no neat way to sum up everything that was going on inside him. “Better, I guess.”

“You look like you need to eat something. Come on. I brought shawarma.”

He waited with some trepidation for her to resume the topic of the mystery man, but she diverted the conversation to something else until he had eaten at least half of his pita wrap. Simon, filled with restless energy, finished his within five minutes and stole a quarter of James’. He was obviously impatient for Mary to reveal the full extent of what she had been told by her bartending friend, but restrained himself and let her take the lead.

When she finally showed them the picture Farrah had forwarded to her, Jesus felt his stomach tighten in recognition. The screenshot from a news feature had Annas’ smirking face taking up most of the image, but the younger man beside him was prominent enough to be familiar.

“His name is Jonathan Amos,” said Mary. “That’s what we managed to dig up after a quick search. Does he look familiar to you?”

Jesus nodded. “I saw him that night, in a corner. I thought it odd that he’d be at a place like that, but it wasn’t unusual enough to be...you know, worrying.” Except he _had_ been worried, hadn’t he? It seemed his instinct had been right after all. “What would he want with me, though?” And what did Jonathan have to do with his disturbing half-formed memories of masked figures in a cavernous chamber?

“Who knows? But we can track him down, make him talk. He’s an aide, a junior lackey at most. Hardly invincible.” Simon’s eyes were steely.

“But we have no proof of anything,” said James. 

“Are you suggesting we sit back and do nothing?”

“James is right,” Jesus said hollowly. “So what if he did spike my drink and...and take me for a ride? No one can prove he did anything more.” His hand crept up unconsciously to where he had discovered small bite marks on his neck when he had taken off his clothes to shower. (The clothes still lay in a neat heap outside the bathroom. He had an overwhelming urge to burn them.)

Mary put a hand on his back. “Do you want to pursue this? We’ll do whatever we can to help. Whatever helps you find some kind of closure.”

“I don’t know.” He pushed her the other half of his shawarma, his appetite having fled. “I just want to forget any of this ever happened.”

And yet he found himself drawn to the picture of Annas and Jonathan, both of them wearing identical smug smiles. As he stared at the image on Mary’s phone, a text alert took over her screen. She pulled her phone away to check the message — “it’s from Farrah,” Mary announced. “She found a video with this Jonathan in it. In case it helps identify him.”

Jesus didn’t need to see it. He knew what he had seen, and also knew it didn’t count for much. It wouldn’t matter if Jonathan himself had left those bruise-like marks on his neck; he had already washed away all evidence. Nothing mattered anymore except trying to get on with his life.

Then he heard something that hit him with a fresh wave of fear. Snatches of Caiaphas' voice from the video turned into the one from his frightening half-formed visions. The voice he had kept buried so that he wouldn't have to associate it with the nightmare of a pharaoh’s mask with the artfully painted eyeholes. Except it wasn't just a nightmare any more.

His lungs closed up in panic, trying to shut out the smell of incense was all around him. He didn’t realise he had curled up on the floor until the silence surrounding him lifted enough to let his friends’ voices in. Someone was urging him to breathe; someone was rubbing his back, Mary's hands on his own and her voice in his ear. The room slowly came back into focus with his head leaning on her chest. She was cradling his head and neck, strong arms steadying him against the shifting ground and the shadows of half-formed memories. 

“H-he was there,” was all he could say for a while. “He was there.”

“Who was there?”

“C-Caiaphas.” 

James laid a hand on his back. “Where were you? What do you mean by ‘there’?”

He shook his head, his throat closing up when he tried to speak. Mary held him tight, rocking him as she would a child. "It's alright. You're safe. You're with us."

The words that should have soothed him made him shudder instead when he recalled Jonathan saying something similar as he had pulled Jesus away from all hope of safety. The last words he remembered before being plunged into the murky realm of things he was torn between needing to remember and wanting to forget.

~

Jonathan knew something had changed when he came to work on Monday morning. Something about the way his seniors smiled in greeting when he passed them by, and a vice-minister holding the elevator door open for him as he ran to catch it, told him he had gained an unspoken stamp of approval. If he had left the Echelon gathering high on his successful initiation, he was now riding that high all the way to the top, or as far as it could take him. Just knowing he walked among the elite made him radiate confidence and put a new stride in his walk. It was like a drug, except that there was no crashing from this pill. And what an incredible pill it was.

The scene of his induction had been cloaked in a halo of smoke and ritual, and the heady aura of power emanating from the fifty or so imposing figures standing in a circle around a raised surface on which stood the altar. The muscled Anubis who had appeared at the door when he arrived entered the scene carrying a now-unclothed Jesus to lay him on the polished slab that was draped in deep red and blue silks.

Jonathan was startled at this development; he had been transfixed enough by the clandestine setting and the eerily enthralling effect of the expressionless masks, but was coming to realise that he was part of what looked to be a ritualistic orgy. He was also pleased to see that his measurement of the sedative had been correct to a fault; Jesus was just beginning to stir, lashes fluttering like frantic moths in thrall of the beckoning flame. His naked form, soon to be completely ravished, looked picturesque against the dark vivid silks. One could not ask for a better offering to the gods of greed and glory.

“Well done,” said a familiar voice beside him. It was Annas in the mask of a grinning demon. “We had a backup plan in case you weren’t able to deliver. But I had confidence you would.”

“Thanks. I feel a bit out of place. Should have worn a robe, perhaps.”

“You would stick out nonetheless. You're wearing a pantalone, the mask donned by novices. After tonight, you’ll wear something else of your own choosing.”

For once, Jonathan was appreciative of Annas’ presence. The man pointed out to him the four figures now approaching the altar. “These are the Acolytes. You know two of them — Theo and Philip.” He nodded; they were public relations managers under Annas’ department. “They serve as honoured assistants and masters of ceremony, and are led by Caiaphas, the Grandmaster.”

Jonathan realised that Jason’s rank (and the valuable network into which he had been ingratiated) must have something to do with the seemingly overnight success of his startup enterprise. Within a year, he had made it into the ranks of the region's top twenty youngest billionaires. He had been vague about the secret of his accomplishments, attributing his capital to the kindness of anonymous angel investors. Some of these investors must be among the masked personages with their gazes fixed on the naked man on the altar, whose wrists were being bound by two of the Acolytes.

“What does one have to do to join their ranks?”

“Keep doing a stellar job. Perform a few...favours along the way. You’ll find out.” Annas shushed him just before the base of Caiaphas’ black staff hit the floor, its thump echoing across the room. "Behold the fallen king," he spoke, commanding the attention of all present. From somewhere above them came a deep clang of a bell. The ceremony had officially begun.

Jonathan watched, entranced, as the first man mounted the altar and began slowly grinding in a slow, steady rhythm while Jesus struggled sluggishly beneath him. Jonathan realised the faint drum beat he had been hearing all the while was growing louder and faster in synchrony with the thrusting. Faster and faster it went until the man climaxed with a groan, and Caiaphas’ staff came down with a thump again.

Three more men did the same, the last one more forceful than his predecessors, heedless of Jesus’ growing pleas — or perhaps driven by them, the fearful, agonised cries a sweet accompaniment to the low primal drum. Jonathan felt himself growing harder with each ritualistic rape. He would have given anything for the right to partake of the feast he had served to his masters, or even just to bring himself to pleasure and defile the people's haloed saint with his spend.

He noticed that quite a number among the Echelon were openly masturbating as they watched six men, one after another, force their cocks into Jesus' mouth and throat. While the sight of him choking and shuddering and begging mindlessly for mercy was deeply, shockingly arousing, Jonathan couldn't bring himself to relieve his burgeoning arousal in front of everyone present. He had only begun to establish his place among this hallowed circle, and didn't feel as if he had quite earned the right to the enjoyment that came so naturally to some of these experienced attendees.

To his quiet relief, Annas seemed to have as much restraint as himself; he wasn't sure how he would have felt had his boss pulled out his own cock and rubbed one out on the spot. "Does this kind of thing happen every gathering?" he asked in a whisper.

"More or less. More often than not, we have a willing sacrifice. Which makes the less willing ones that much more special." He could hear Annas' gleeful smirk behind the mask.

By the time the last man stepped back from the altar and the drumbeats ended, Jesus was staring blankly at the ceiling in shock, stained with the spend of those who had paid well for the privilege of using his body. He had long ceased his struggle and lay lifelessly on the rumpled silks like a broken doll.

Jonathan did not register at first that he was being summoned. His heart skipped a beat when Caiaphas gestured to him, beckoning him forth. All eyes in the room were on him as he stepped forward, warm with the thrill of such attention. 

"You've done well, Jonathan," said the deep paternal voice. "Your brothers gathered here tonight thank you. As do I."

All around them, heads dipped in acknowledgment of his accomplishment and acceptance as one of theirs. Jonathan beamed with the glow of their recognition. He looked at Caiaphas, imagining the man's approving smile behind the mask, and was filled to bursting with pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no apologies for me being a garbage heap who enjoys making Jesus suffer. ~sinks into the pit of shamelessness


	3. Retribution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return of the boyfriend + let the murders begin

A heroic defender of the downtrodden and a bad boy from the wrong side of the tracks. It was a classic West Side Story romance, according to those who felt the fallout of the passionate affair when it met its inevitable end. The difference was that both lovers lived on to tell the tale. Except that they never did tell much, both keeping their sides of the short-lived story close to the heart as if hoping to relive it someday.

They used to meet at the border of the territory ruled by the Apostles: one of the ‘big four’ gangs who divided the city between them. It seemed fitting for the star-crossed lovers whose romance met with opposition from both Judas’ fellow gang members and Jesus’ friends. Jesus had pleaded repeatedly for his beloved to leave behind his career of extortion and violence. He was appalled at Judas’ propensity for violence and viciousness with a knife that could expertly gut a man in seconds (not that he had ever witnessed this particular skill in action, for which he was grateful). 

But for Judas, violence had been a way of life — and the only way to survive growing up in a neighbourhood that spared no one, least of all the soft of heart. With Jesus alone, he found for the first time an inclination to tenderness that came as naturally as the brutality he had been weaned on. It was a tenderness interwoven with the fierce intensity of their lovemaking, which was often tinged with a sweet desperation that seemed to foretell the brevity of their time together.

The tattoo resting on his lower back was a counterpoint to the mark of gang membership between his shoulder blades: one dedicated to his beloved. A carnation surrounded by ivy leaves, for lasting love and loyalty. It was a wordless pledge unbroken even after Jesus left him, unable to reconcile their relationship with the bloody crimes committed by the same man he loved. Judas had never considered removing the tattoo, though. Each mark on his body was a moment immortalised in time, a memory of things he cherished, or things he needed reminding of. Love and death and conflict: his skin was a story in ink.

His only remaining connection to Jesus was a close friend of his; a former fellow Apostle. Like himself, Simon Zealotes (who wore the same gang tattoo behind his left shoulder) had gone legit some years ago. Jesus was in the dark as to Simon’s criminal history, knowing only that he had friends in shady places, and unaware that one of those friends was his ex-lover.

The two former partners in crime had not been in close contact since they parted ways. Neither were particularly good with niceties like annual festive how-are-you’s. Which was why Judas greeted Simon’s call out of the blue with a degree of wary surprise.

“Hey, old friend. How’ve you been keeping up?”

“What do you want?”

“I need to extract important information the old-fashioned way. Could use someone of your particular skills.”

Judas cast a glance around the workshop he now owned that specialised in custom car mods, making sure no customers were in range. “I don’t do that shit anymore, Zealotes.”

“Oh right, I forgot. You're a changed man. Got a wife and kids now.”

“Up your ass.”

“Look, I need a criminal to catch one, if you get my drift. I know you’re retired, we both are — but this is important. As in personal.”

“How are those two correlated?”

“As in it involves your ex-boyfriend.”

“What — Jesus?”

“Uh-huh.” A brief pause. “Something bad happened to him.”

His stomach started coiling as his pulse quickened. “How bad?” he asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

“It’s better if I tell you in person. Trust me, you’ll need a drink. Or three.”

They met at a bar that used to be owned by a rival gang leader who had met a bloody end in a war both of them had been involved in. "Nice ride," Judas commented gruffly in appraisal of Simon's modified Mazda RX-8. “So what’s this about my ex?”

“Still got feelings for him, haven’t you?” Judas shot a glare at him before realising the question was empathetic, rather than mocking. “Come on.” Simon beckoned with a small smile. “Drinks on me.”

Only after pouring out their first refill did Simon tell him everything. Judas didn’t interrupt during the whole sordid story, but felt his heart sinking and his insides turn to ice as terrible images flashed unbidden through his head. Near the end of it, he was gripping his glass of gin and tonic so tightly that Simon had to take it from him, afraid it would break beneath his whitening knuckles. “Are you sure he was...you sure of what happened to him?”

“He was naked and disoriented, and had bruises and marks he couldn’t recall the source of. I think it’s safe to put two and two together.”

As Judas snatched back the glass to down the rest of his drink, Simon added: “Caiaphas was involved. And a lackey named Jonathan Amos.”

“You said he hardly remembered anything.”

“He heard the slimy fuck’s voice in a video, got badly triggered. He doesn’t trust his own memories a hundred percent at the moment. But he insisted Caiaphas was there. By ‘there’, I presume he means the scene of the...of the rape.” _Most likely a gangbang,_ Simon didn’t bother adding. He didn’t need to. Judas’ hands were trembling as he dug out a cigarette; Simon lit it for him. He took a long, shaky drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke, reeling from all that Simon had told him. He didn't want to contemplate the man he still loved being brutalised in unimaginable ways. The thought made him sick with sorrow and fury beyond anything he had ever felt.

"How can you be so calm about all this?" he whispered.

He looked up to see Simon's eyes boring unblinking into his. "Jude, you think I don't stay up at night with enough rage to give me hemorrhoids? Do you think I felt nothing when I saw him lying unconscious next to his own vomit, or held him as he cried when he realised he'd been drugged and raped? Or that I don't _hate_ how little I can do to make him stop feeling like garbage for awful things those fuckbags did to —"

"Alright, _enough._ I...I get it. I'm sorry." Judas reached out halfway for his hand, faltering and twitching, unused to showing tenderness to someone who wasn't his ex-lover. Instead he extended his pack of cigarettes to Simon after taking another himself. Simon accepted, and they spent a few seconds smoking in silence until Judas broke it and asked: “So what do you propose?"

"Was hoping you'd have some idea. You're the expert. It's why Tomas wouldn't let you go." 

"Oh, he was willing enough to let me go. To my grave." Like most gangs of their level, the penalty for leaving was death. Tomas, the menacing leader of the Apostles, had attempted to put a bullet through Judas' head for his desertion. Judas had narrowly escaped by putting a bullet through his first. 

"How far out are you willing to stick your neck?" he asked. 

"Do you need to ask? How far are _you_ willing to stick yours?"

"For what they did to Jesus? Right in the noose." He stubbed out the embers of his cigarette stub vehemently and poured another drink. "But not before I take a few down with me."

"Ride or die?” Simon clinked his glass against his old friend’s.

“Ride or die.” They downed their gin and started planning.

~

_The ropes on his wrists burned as he pulled mindlessly at his bonds, fighting uselessly against the faceless figures rutting into him to the rhythm of a menacing drum. The pain and shock of the repeated assaults left him shaken to the core by the time the fourth man pulled out. This one had been especially brutal, the thick girth threatening to split him in two as hard fingers gripped his flesh to leave a cluster of bruises._

_But his ordeal was not over yet. He was pulled along the slab until his head hung down over the edge. Someone’s thick musky sex was being pushed into his face, making him choke with its scent, then with its length penetrating his mouth as a hand gripped his hair tightly. He retched and quivered when the head of the cock hit his throat; he dragged desperate gulps of air into his tortured lungs whenever he was allowed to. They savoured his every struggle for breath, licking the tears from his face. He lost count of how many had taken him after the third cock he was forced to swallow. He wished he could eject the foul spend that had coursed down his throat time and time again._

_At some point he lapsed into a catatonic state, only faintly aware of what was happening around him. After the ordeal finally drew to a close, someone untied him and gently lifted him from the altar. A glass was pushed against his lips. “Time to rest now,” said the low soothing voice. “Forget you were ever here.”_

_The liquid was cool and tinged with an odd sharp flavour. It washed down the taste of the strange men from his mouth, for which he was grateful. As he was carried away from the chamber, he felt his surroundings spin and shift and go dark. A similar sensation to the first time he had been drugged. But this time he welcomed it, longing for oblivion, falling headlong into its arms in a bid to escape the nightmare chamber of incense-smoke and silk._

Jesus seldom remembered his dreams, least of all the ones that left him not just deeply disturbed, but waking in a cold sweat with a pounding heart. He had taken to driving aimlessly for hours after work, not wanting to be alone with his thoughts for too long before going to sleep. Sometimes he would forget to have dinner until he came home and realised his stomach was still growling. 

He did not remember because he didn't want to. Afraid of the helplessness of being unable to undo what had happened. 

_Coward_ , he thought as he pulled on his clothes after a shower, unable to look at himself naked in the mirror for more than a few seconds. The marks had long faded from his body. Yet he could not help feeling like it was no longer his: only a thing that had been used and discarded, rendering his sense of self brittle and fragile. 

He had left Simon's house two weeks ago, only to fall into an unmoving depression shortly after returning to his own. Eventually, the fog had lifted enough for him to function, if not quite enough for him to reach out for the human contact he occasionally badly craved. Earlier today, Matthew had called, and he had answered with an odd trepidation. There were days when there was a wall between himself and the people who cared about him, and he didn’t know how to kick it down for good.

“How are you holding up?”

“Alright.” It was too brief a reply. He didn’t know what else to say.

“You know, I never got to...John told me I shouldn’t. But I’ll go crazy if I don’t, and I know that in itself is a selfish reason, but...” Matthew seemed agonized about something, and Jesus patiently let him take his time. “I never got to apologize, is what I mean.”

“Apologize? For what?”

If I...I hadn’t accepted the drinks that night — if I’d turned them down —”

“Matt, no. Don’t do that to yourself.” He ached at the guilt his friend must have been tormented with ever since the night of his disappearance. “We’re all adults. No one forced our hand or anything.”

“You’re right.” He heard the sniffle of tears and was suddenly hungry to physically comfort Matthew, and be comforted himself. “Do you need anything? Just let me or John know. We’ll help in whatever way we can.”

“I’ll let you know if I do.” He couldn’t say much more than that; his throat was swollen with unshed tears he didn’t want to let Matthew hear for fear of making him feel bad again. _I don’t deserve such friends,_ he thought, and then wondered why he would think such a thing. He wasn’t in his right mind; he was scattered and fragile and needed company while simultaneously unsure of how to handle it. 

Perhaps he should have stayed at Simon’s for another day or so. Part of him wanted strongly to drive over and hole up at his friend’s house watching TV in a semi-catatonic state for the next hour. But it didn’t make much sense to, when he could do the same right now. And that was what he ended up doing: lying glassy-eyed on the couch for hours, drifting in and out of reality, until a phone call from Mary forced him into action.

"I'm coming over with food in half an hour," she announced. "How does pad thai and spring rolls sound to you?"

He wasn't sure if he could handle seeing anyone at first — not even the people he loved most in the world. But as soon as he answered the door, he realised how much he appreciated her effortless authority as she took over the space seconds after marching in, declaring with a tight hug that he was getting thin and she was determined to get some food down him.

"You know, the hospice is having a bake sale," she said over lunch, referring to the care centre they sometimes volunteered at. "They could use some of your famous muffins."

The thought was heartening, and he realised he had a fresh urge to bake something. "I'll need to go shop for ingredients." His eagerness was mixed with hesitance; he hadn't gone anywhere outside of work and home, feeling oddly exposed when alone in public spaces. And yet he needed — _wanted_ it. He hungered to have his old life back, to go on as if nothing had changed.

"I'll go with you. And I’ll bring John along."

He smiled for the first time in two weeks. The prospect of something as mundane as getting butter and eggs filled him with a surge of warmth. Mary saw the change in his demeanour and gave him another hug, as if to say: _things will be okay again._

~

Jonathan was humming a swing version of ‘Top of the World’ as he strutted to his compact hybrid car after work, wondering if he should upgrade it to something that made more of an impact. Something that announced to everyone present that he had _arrived._

He had been on cloud nine when he received the email confirming his promotion and a nice hefty raise to go with it. Earlier, Caiaphas had passed him by in the hallway and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well done, my boy,” he said. Jonathan had smiled so broadly in reply that his face threatened to split open. He hadn’t stopped smiling for the next half hour. He almost felt as if he should personally thank the man whose defilement he had made possible for being so integral to his newly elevated status.

_“Something in the wind has learned my name,”_ he sang softly, words echoing off the walls and pillars. _“And it’s telling me that things are not the same…”_

That was when he was hit in the back with a golf club. He went sprawling on the concrete floor, pain reverberating all through his spine. “What the hell —?”

“Makes me feel all posh, wielding one of these,” said one of his two hooded attackers, hefting the titanium-forged weapon. “Like I’m at a country club.”

Then the club came down on his head with a _thunk,_ and everything went abruptly black.

He woke up with a hellish throbbing that gripped his brain in red-hot pain before it subsided just enough for him to take in his surroundings. Not that there was much to take in: a bare, poorly lit room with boarded windows in what looked like some abandoned house. The fog of initial confusion was replaced by panic when he realised he was tied to a chair. The two figures who had attacked him in the parking lot stood watching until he fully registered their presence.

“Who the hell _are_ you?” he groaned.

“That’s not important. What’s important is what we want, and whether you’ll give it to us.”

He shifted in the hard wooden chair, wincing at the tightness of his bonds, and the way the room swayed when he moved too suddenly. “What _do_ you want?”

“Information, honeybuns. That’s all.” The man who had wielded the golf club crouched before him. “And you’re gonna give it to us, or start losing body parts.”

“W-what sort of information? I don’t —” His word were cut off by the fingers gripping his jaw and cheeks like iron.

“Nuh-uh. We ask the questions. You just answer them.” 

Jonathan’s heart was racing by the time the fingers released him. “Look. You don’t want to do anything...regrettable. I’m with — I’m part of a very powerful group of men, and once they know I’m missing —”

“By the time they know, it’ll be tomorrow,” the taller figure replied with deadly calm. “Which gives the three of us plenty of time together.”

Both assailants were hooded and masked, but Jonathan could see the gleam of their eyes and the menace in their voices. They sounded like men who had killed before and didn’t mind doing so again if the prize was worth it. “My colleague here is right,” said Golf Club Guy. “So if I were you, I’d be cooperative. We don’t _want_ to kill you. Or dismember you too much, for that matter. We have bigger fish to fry.”

The other man added nothing to this threat, but stalked silently in the shadows in a way that made Jonathan very nervous. He was beginning to wish he had gone to the bathroom before leaving the office. When the click of a switchblade echoed in the empty space, he felt like he would pee himself right there.

“On the night of the thirteenth of March, you were seen leaving Sidney’s Pub with my good friend Jesus.” Golf Club Guy leisurely cleaned under his nails with the switchblade’s tip.” You’re going to tell us where you brought him. Or rather, who are the people you brought him to.” The blade traced a line up his forearm to his neck, and then to his cheek. “And you’re going to tell us all about their movements. How we can pull them aside for a nice private chat.” The blade was at the tip of his eye now. He felt the blood drain from his face.

_If I betray them...if they know...I’ll lose everything,_ he thought. He'd be ejected from the near-impenetrable circle he had just managed to win access to. It was ridiculous, he realised, to think of such things rather than the immediate concern of not being mutilated by two cold-blooded killers. And yet... 

He thought of the untouchable men orbiting Annas and Caiaphas. He wondered what would happen if some of these men were to disappear; how bad it would be. If no one knew he was the one ratting them out...well then, it meant fewer people in his way to the heart of that circle, didn't it? 

"You won’t tell them, will you? You won’t tell anyone I was your source. Right?” He tried to lean away from the knife tip that was dangerously close to digging out his eyeball. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. The people we’re after will be dead before they can squeal on you.”

“Enough of playing nice.” The other guy moved forward like a striking cobra, so fast Jonathan didn’t see him coming until a knife was buried in his thigh. He screamed until the guy hit cut him off by hitting him in the face.

“You can answer my friend’s questions with your guts safely inside you,” came the ultimatum, the voice frighteningly calm once more. “Or you can answer the same questions with them hanging out.” The knife was unsheathed from his thigh as he cried out, and moved to his belly where it sliced through his shirt to reveal the vulnerable flesh beneath. “Which will it be?”

“Alright! Alright. I’ll talk. Please...please don’t cut out my guts or-or anything else.”

“Good. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He could hear Golf Club’s broad, merciless grin beneath the mask. “Now, first question…”

~

Few people paid attention when the first of the Acolytes, a Jason Kohn, went missing. Only when the body of the second one, Theophilus Nott, was found together the dead chairman of a prestigious land development company did the buzz begin. Two days later, Jason's body washed up by the side of an old mining lake, bloated and barely recognisable. Much more identifiable was the fresher corpse beside it: the owner of a chain of luxury hotels. To the outside observer, he and the late chairman had no relation to each other. To the secret society of men who had witnessed them both enjoying the rape they had bid highly to partake in, the deaths seemed like the start of a message. And they were right.

When a minister of finance was found strangled just outside his own gates, his heavyset bodyguard stabbed in the neck, the panic began to rise through the ranks of the Echelon as their veneer of invincibility crumbled. Meanwhile, the remaining two Acolytes, Philip Hassan and Antonius Felix, were each being kept in separate rooms in the same disused building Jonathan had woken up in. Both were somewhat more tight-lipped than Jonathan had been in offering up information, right until Simon started getting inventive with a pair of pliers. Antonius, the highest-ranking Acolyte, was persuaded by the loss of a finger and two toes into providing valuable intelligence on several prominent political figures who were among the winning bidders on the night of March the thirteenth.

“Interesting how fast the four turned on each other,” Simon commented as they shared a hipflask and a pack of smokes outside the venue where their prisoners were held. “Considering they were tighter than a crab’s ass when guarding their higher-ups.”

“No honour among thieving ass kissers,” Judas replied dryly. “Everything’s a competition of who can step on each other first to climb the highest.” While torturing information out of the Acolytes, they had found out that a large part of the Echelon was composed of the nation’s biggest embezzlers and swindlers, including politicians who used massive development projects as fronts for siphoning billions in tax payer dollars. It was the perfect environment to foster ambitions based on cut-throat, bottomless greed.

“It’s sad, really.” Simon took a swig of the amber liquid inside the slim flask before passing it back. “I doubt the powerful men whose secrets they try so hard to protect give a shit about them.”

Judas went quiet and shifted restlessly before asking what he had been meaning to for a while. “How’s Jesus doing?”

“Better. According to Mary, anyway. Although she says there are still things he won’t talk about. Like he’s holding back a part of himself.”

“He does that sometimes.”

“Even when he was with you?”

“Especially when he was with me.” The words were weighted with past frustration and new longing.

Simon threw a sidelong glance at his partner in crime, catching the fleeting look of tenderness before it fled. He remembered the early days of the couple’s intense and occasionally tempestuous romance. Simon had been acquainted with Jesus through their shared passion for changing the world one social movement at a time, even if Simon occasionally went a bit overboard in taking his violent streak to rallies and punching more than a few cops in the face. (He had been arrested at least twice, bailed out by a few of his loyal fellow Apostles.) Judas had agreed not to let on that Simon ran in the same circles he did, so as not to taint the close friendship with the same troubles testing his relationship with Jesus.

Simon had a fond memory of Jesus mounting Judas’ motorbike, pulling on his boyfriend’s jacket, and clinging on as they sped off into the distance on a cool golden evening. They had looked so _right_ for each other. In each stolen kiss and each brief look from one to another, in the way they would hold each other before each parting as if never wanting to let go.

And yet they had, in the end. Simon had tried to talk Jesus out of breaking up with his boyfriend while also grudgingly admiring how Jesus would stick to his principles if it killed him. He personally would never have resisted someone as fierce and passionate as Judas; especially when his looks didn’t hurt either. The way he looked at Jesus, that ardent, electric gaze reserved for one alone, would have made a thousand other would-be lovers fall at his feet. All save the one man he had never stopped loving, and likely never would for as long as the inked ivy leaves crept up his back from where the red petals blossomed as they had all those years ago.


	4. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annas attempts to avoid being the next victim + more whump & fresh trauma because why not

Annas had lived in the long shadow of Joseph Caiaphas for most of his career. And it had served him well, elevating him beyond his initially narrow, money-grubbing ambitions to open up a world of privilege that money alone could not easily obtain. But now the protective shade he had walked in for so long had abruptly disappeared. And he felt the betrayal of its abandonment keenly.

The man with whom he had been in a symbiotic relationship for years, one feeding the other in a mission to cement their place at the apex of power, had left him to bleed and perish. Caiaphas had effectively cut off his faithful right hand man from his existence; had refused to answer his calls, likely having blocked his number. Annas had found his emails bouncing back from a nonexistent address, his messages meeting with a dead end.

Still, he had _some_ resources left. One did not step on as many people and crush as many futures as he had without amassing some serious clout along the way, independent of the man whose coattails he had ridden to his advantage. And right now, he needed to secure the one asset left that would allow him to escape with his life, and limbs, intact.

Two and a half hours after making a call to a henchman whose loyalty was comparable to that of a longtime mafia capo — and whose fealty belonged to Annas rather than his superior after he had done the man a huge favour some years ago — he headed straight to the reception desk of the Hotel Typhon. He had made prior arrangements, knowing that his name and that of a select few others was enough to secure a room at the drop of a hat with no questions asked. The click of the chequered tiles against his soles provided some small comfort, giving him a sense of familiar territory, as he headed to the small but luxurious suite near the top floor.

He entered the bedroom of the suite to see his loyal capo and a thickset hired goon standing over the bed where Jesus was handcuffed to the posts and gagged with a thick length of fabric wedged between his lips. His shirt was half-torn, one side of his face mapped with bruises and contusions from where the goon had hit him hard enough to subdue him. Annas himself would have preferred a more subtle method, but he hadn’t been fussed about the specifics. All he needed was his ransom intact enough to qualify as a bargaining chip. 

Jesus’ anxious, hitched breaths were the only sound filling the room for a while, his eyes following Annas across the room as the latter lifted the crystal decanter from the vanity dresser to pour out the expensive whisky that always awaited him. “I’m sorry about your inconvenient situation,” he said to his captive. “It’s nothing personal, you understand. You are here as a means to halt any attempts on my life, and that of my men here, by the vigilantes who are keen on avenging you.” He dropped a few ice cubes into the glass and swirled the golden liquid before taking a sip. "It's unfortunate for you that one of your dear compatriots had to get involved."

He held up his phone so Jesus could see the closed-circuit cam footage Annas had managed to obtain. It showed the back lane of an office building where two men were dragging a third with them before beating him up and hauling him out of sight. Seconds before they left the edge of the screen, one of the assailants' hoods fell back to reveal a visage Jesus clearly recognised. His eyes widened as he spilled a muffled exclamation.

"Simon Zealotes. A man with quite a colourful history, according to police records. Seen here accosting our minister of immigration." Annas tucked his phone back into his pocket. "Mister Zealotes was a former member of the notorious and now-defunct gang known as the Apostles." The stricken look on Jesus' face was telling. "Ahh. He failed to inform you of that, did he?"

He perched on the side of the bed and reached out to remove the gag. “You’re going to do as I tell you,” he said more calmly than he felt, “for your benefit as well as mine.”

“He...Simon wasn’t involved in-in the other murders,” Jesus said, quick to defend his friend’s innocence despite clearly being shaken by what he had just seen and heard. “You have no proof.”

“Well, that’s just what you’re here to help clarify.” Annas fetched the phone that had been confiscated from Jesus earlier. “I have three bounty hunters with their barrels aimed at your good friend’s head right about now, whether or not he’s aware of it. If you fail to make an important phone call within the next few minutes, they have been instructed to pull the trigger.” This was a lie, of course; the hitmen had been instructed to shoot Simon regardless. Annas had plotted his circumvention of death to the very end. And he knew from the look of fear and defeat in his captive’s lowered eyes that he had won this part of the game. Now he simply had to keep his attentions on the next hurdle ahead.

~

Simon took his time in the shower, ensuring the remnants of dried blood from the last outing were completely washed away. There were four more men on their hit list, including the one at the centre of the Echelon’s conception: the one and only Joseph Caiaphas.

It had been fascinating to pull at the threads, one broken finger or pulled tooth at a time, that turned the tight-knit microcosm into an unravelling ball of yarn as member turned on member and made panicked promises to drop names and spill secrets in exchange for keeping all their body parts intact. Simon and Judas made good on their end of that bargain. Every man died whole: eyes, fingers and genitals still in place (except for that one codger who had been particularly nasty and ended up having four toes removed before Judas drove an ice pick through his throat).

As he was towelling off, his phone started buzzing on the bedside table. It was Jesus. “Hey. What can I do you for?”

“Simon. I...uhm, need to ask you something.” His friend sounded oddly strained. “Are you okay?” Simon asked.

Jesus ignored his question. “Were you behind the recent series of...of murder cases?”

“Which murders exactly?”

There were muffled sounds on the other end Simon couldn’t make out. When Jesus started talking again, he sounded like he was reading off a list, reciting the names and positions of the victims in an increasingly shaky voice. Simon almost expected the litany to end on the last man he had just killed, but the only names were those already in the news.

“Jesus,” he said softly. “Why are you asking this now?”

“I just...needed to know. That’s all.”

“And what made you think I did it?”

“I-I don’t know. Did you?”

Simon ruminated for a few seconds before answering with another question. “Would you think less of me if I said yes?”

There was a pause. “You’d still be my friend. No matter what.” His next words came out in a tremulous rush. “Simon, whatever happens, don’t put yourself in danger. Don’t listen to what —”

He was cut off abruptly in a way that sounded like he’d been struck. Simon couldn’t make out what was going on, but it sounded like trouble. _“It’s Annas! Don’t take the bait. Don’t let him bait you!”_ were the last words he heard in the background before the call suddenly ended.

Simon stared at his screen in blank horror. _Something has happened to him. Oh god. Something’s happened...Annas has him. I need to — we need a plan —_

As he was about to call Judas, he received a message from Jesus’ number. But it was not Jesus who had typed and sent the brutally short, menacing sentence.

_-End one more life and you end his._

The attachment following this text message made him cold all over with fear. Jesus was tied to what looked like a bed, someone pulling back his hair to force a clear view of his battered face as he tried to avert his gaze from the camera. He looked like he’d been crying.

 _Don’t let him bait you._ What did that mean?

He received the answer in a follow-up message that arrived within the minute, also from Jesus’ phone. It contained an address and a time along with brusque instructions that suggested he was to be punctual if he wanted to see his friend alive.

Except his instincts — and Jesus’ hastily blurted warning — told him that the information and instructions were meant to mislead, to trap. Possibly to kill. And while Simon had already vowed to lay his life on the line, he would only do so if it guaranteed Jesus’ safety. 

He forced himself to study the photo, painful though it was, zooming in to try and glean more of the surroundings. Luckily Jesus had recently upgraded to a better phone model after his old one finally bit the dust, and the camera’s resolution was just high enough to offer a blurred glimpse of the information menu on the bedside table that had partially made it into the frame. The standard-issue kind in most hotels that listed the numbers for room service and such. The monogram printed on the card looked vaguely familiar.

He was pacing the living room restlessly when James returned and fixed him with a frown of concern. “Dude. Everything okay?”

“No. Nothing is okay.” Simon ran a hand through his hair, drawing in a ragged breath. “All we wanted to do was make sure those fucks would never harm anyone again. All we wanted was to keep him safe. And now we’ve gone and done the opposite. What were we even _thinking?”_

“Whoa. Hey. What are you talking about?”

Instead of answering his question, Simon showed him a cropped version of the photo he had been looking at on and off, showing only the information menu with the printed monogram. “I need to know where this came from.”

“That logo thing?" James stared blankly for a few seconds before he perked up. "Oh, hey. Isn't it the hotel where you stole a bunch of coasters?'

“Wait. What?”

“Yeah, you were at the café, meeting some client or other.” Simon, unable to stay on the right side of the law for long after the Apostles disbanded, had found a side hustle transporting large amounts of contraband goods to well-paying customers. Some of whom were also patrons of such high-class establishments from which Simon liked to nick small things just for the fun of it.

“We might still have them,” James added unncessarily; Simon had already rushed to the shelf beside their dining table where the coasters they liked to collect (but hardly ever used) were piled in an untidy heap. He shuffled through them until he found the one with the familiar monogram. “The Typhon.”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” James laid a hand on his shoulder. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“No. It’s fine. You don’t need to be involved…” 

“Simon, I _know_ something’s going on, even if I don’t know what exactly.” Simon looked up into James’ eyes, which held no judgment, only concern. “In the past three or so weeks you’ve refused to tell me where you were or what you were up to when you disappear for hours on end. The night before, you left clothes in the hamper that looked like they had bloodstains on them. I can’t help being...y’know, concerned.”

Simon squeezed his shoulder in response. “I know. And I’ll tell you everything after it’s all over. I promise.”

“Just promise me you won’t get killed.”

“Deal.”

“Or dismembered, or permanently paralysed. Be nice if you kept all your bits too.”

“I’ll have both eyes and my dick and at least one testicle intact. That enough for you?”

James chuckled, even if the frown didn’t entirely leave his brow. He hugged his friend more tightly than usual as if sensing the imminent unspoken threat hanging over Simon's head. Simon squeezed back in return before breaking away. "I need to go, now. Don't wait up for me."

"You know I will, idiot."

He shot a rueful smile at James before walking off to arm himself with his usual weapons, plus a few more. After making sure James was nowhere within earshot, he called Judas, who picked up after barely two beeps.

"Jesus has been taken," he said without preamble. "He's at the —"

" _What??_ Shit!"

"Calm down. We're gonna get him. I need you to ask Jonathan — if he's still alive — which room Annas typically occupies at the Hotel Typhon."

"Right. Got it." He heard Judas swearing shakily, doubtless pacing like a caged panther.

"Also, we might need firepower, so load up. Best be prepared."

He didn't wait for confirmation before ending the call. The faster they moved, the stronger the element of surprise. And they needed all the advantage they could get.

~

Annas poured out another glass of whisky while making the next phone call on his list. “Are you stationed?” he asked the person on the other end. “Good. He should be there within half an hour. Take him down as soon as you get a clear shot.”

“You _lied._ You said you would spare him if I did as you said!” Jesus writhed in his restraints, his desperate movements weakened only by the pain of having been beaten to an inch of his life. Each deep breath he took caused a sharp tugging sensation in his lower chest.

“Afraid I had no choice,” Annas replied after ending the call. “Kill or be killed. The most ancient law of the wild comes for all of us. I was under the illusion that I had done enough to safeguard myself from needing such...primitive measures, but I know better now.”

"He never answered the question. On whether he killed all those men."

“He seemed desperate for your good opinion of him. Always a sign of guilt, in my experience.” Annas emptied his glass and set it down with a firm clink. “Eight out of the ten men who had their way with you are now dead. How do you feel about that, eh?”

“There were ten of them?” he whispered, his previously vague dread taking shape as a vision of robed and masked men crept into his head, haunting him from beyond death.

“Thirty men bid for the use of you. A maximum of ten winning bids are allowed. I imagined they regretted their expenditure once they were at the mercy of Mister Zealotes, and whoever assisted him in his vengeful quest.”

His insides curled up at the casual description of the terrible violation that still gave him half-formed nightmares and made him wake covered in icy sweat. “You mentioned eight. Who are the other two?” Fear crept up his throat at the thought of being trapped with one of his rapists. “Were...are you one of them?”

Annas smiled, chuckled humourlessly. “No. I am not allowed to bid; nor is Caiaphas, nor any of the Acolytes, the masters of ceremonies if you will. No, the last two have left the country. I doubt they'll be returning anytime soon." He cast a cursory gaze at his captive. "I _could_ just take you right now. Except that this messy predicament your good friend started rather sours the mood. Perhaps when this whole charade is over, eh?”

 _You mean when Simon is cold and dead,_ Jesus thought, and immediately pushed the idea from his mind. He thought of Simon walking into a trap, with that picture of him as bait, and was filled with a suffocating hopelessness. One that was weighed down further by the knowledge that he had been held down and raped by no less than ten people. Much as he didn't usually condone such acts of vengeance, he felt relief at the fact that most of them no longer walked the earth. But it was a relief that had been hard-won. One he wasn't prepared to pay the price for…except Simon had already made that choice for them.

“Please don’t do this,” he whispered, knowing it was beyond useless.

“Your unfailing care for others over yourself is as moving as always.” Annas sat beside him, caressing his face as if in comfort, trailing his fingers down Jesus' neck before tightening them to slowly press on his windpipe.

"You know, if you weren't such fun, I'd kill you right now for your little 'warning'. For interfering with your big mouth." His fingers clamped down until Jesus was struggling for air. "I could end your life right here, and still be far less of a criminal than your friend." 

Annas continued strangling him until it hurt to try to breathe, until the room started going blue-black at the edges, before letting him go. He shuddered and gasped as his captor sat back with a smirk. "I _will_ dispose of you eventually. But first, my men here deserve to be indulged for all their hard work. Don't you think?"

Jesus' face and neck burned, knowing full well what those words implied. He resolutely refrained from pleading to be spared; begging would only increase their pleasure. Annas pushed his gag back in place as the two men stared down at him, their gaze already undressing him. His insides went cold and tightened with new fear. _(The first man approached the altar, his cock already flushed and hard.)_ Annas' right hand man was unbuttoning his pants, sliding them down his hips. _(His thighs were forcefully held apart as oiled fingers breached him and the first cry escaped his lips.)_ A hand slid beneath his briefs to squeeze and knead the curve of his behind. It was getting hard to breathe. His escalating panic made him thrash mindlessly, despite the pain in his ribs, beneath the strong hands pinning him down. _(The head of the faceless man's sex slid against his opening, ready to split him open.)_ Annas gripped his jaw and told him to be still. "You were always ready to be a martyr, to suffer for your people." The fingers were as ruthless and bruising as they had been on his neck. "So suffer now, and embrace your purpose."

The hard heated cock pressing against his face intensified his struggle. Suddenly he was back in that incense-filled chamber, locked in his own helplessness and unable to stop the dark figures pressing down on him, the hum of voices surrounding him in the suffocating trap of dreams he had suppressed and silenced countless times....

The jarring bang of a gunshot broke the spell of the nightmarish flashback. Jesus recoiled at the splatter of Annas’ blood on his face. The bullet had hit three of his fingers to leave bleeding stumps. He screamed in agony until the butt of a gun whipped him in the back of his head and knocked him out.

Jesus turned to see Simon landing another bullet in the large goon who had assaulted him with a bat and thrown him onto the floor of a van. The same who had stuck a rough hand down his pants and smiled at his ensuing struggle. The shot hit him right in the nose, turning the centre of his face into a bloody pulp. After that Jesus shut his eyes until the gunfire subsided, the vivid crimson-soaked images burned into the back of his eyes.

He registered nothing for a stretch of seconds or minutes, having sunk into a state of shock. Someone’s hands removed the fabric stifling his laboured whimpers and stroked his face gently. Someone whose voice sounded very familiar. He looked into the electric-blue eyes that were full of fury and pain and love. “Judas??”

His wrists were freed from the handcuffs with a harsh metallic click, and then he was falling into Judas’ arms as if they had never parted. He was cold all over and shivering uncontrollably, and stunned at the appearance of his ex-lover. He barely knew what was real anymore, feeling untethered from his own body until a blanket was pulled around him to envelope him in steadying warmth. Then those strong arms were wrapped firmly around him, a shield against the horrors that clawed at him ever harder the more he tried to push them away.

“You’re safe now,” came the whisper against his forehead. The shivers slowly ceased as he curled up against Judas’ chest, relishing how good it felt — as if something had been missing from his life all the while without him realising it. There were a multitude of questions on his mind, blurring into one another. How Simon had found him; how Judas was involved; if they really had killed all those men. But the fresh horror of the near-rape that had taken place, and the old horrors it had unearthed, was suddenly too much to bear, and it was all he could do to hang on to a shred of sanity.

“You’re safe,” Judas repeated. “I won’t let anyone touch you again.” His voice was locked away somewhere deep inside him, and he could only nod in response, knowing at last that the nightmares would taint his waking life no longer.

~

Judas had begun to doubt the wisdom of taking out as many men as they had, especially when the faces of the dead began to luridly adorn front pages and headlining features like a sensational circus of murder. But the sight of Jesus bound, battered and ruthlessly manhandled had renewed his protective rage. All hesitation fled as he fired a shot into Annas' grubby hand and another into the suited slimeball standing over the bed with his cock half-out. He almost regretted not shooting off that goddamn dick first just to make the man scream.

Simon had taken care of the third man and hit Annas in the head once more time for good measure _—_ they needed him out but alive for the final stage of their plan. Judas cradled Jesus' face and ran his fingers through the mop of dark wavy hair until some colour seeped back into his cheeks. His eyes struggled to focus, Judas' name spilling from his lips in a voice full of disbelief. His fingers were even colder than his face, prompting Judas to pull the quilt from the bed around him and hold him until the shivers abated. Before that, he pushed up the half-torn shirt to check for injuries, angered and pained by the swathe of purple-blue bruises and contusions.

“Does it hurt when you breathe?” When he got no response, he gently grasped Jesus’ head and tilted it till their eyes met, repeating the question. Jesus blinked and nodded. His shivering finally abated as Simon finished binding Annas' arms and legs securely. “We’re getting you out of here. Okay? Can you hear me?” Another mute nod.

"Is he alright?" Simon asked after he pulled the last knot tight.

"He might have a fractured rib or two. Not sure if he can walk.”

“Did you ask him?”

“He won’t answer. I think he’s in shock.” Judas drew a deep breath in an effort to calm his rage. “These two gits died far too easy.”

“Tell me about it.” Simon stomped on the dead thug’s fingers just to hear them break, trying to find some catharsis of his own. Meanwhile, Judas managed to guide Jesus off the bed and onto his feet. He winced at the ache of his injuries, but managed to move on his own feet with some support from Judas.

With some effort, they managed to squeeze Annas onto the lower compartment of the room service cart they had stolen. They covered the whole thing with the bedsheet, trying their best to obscure the bit with the bloodstains. "It's a good thing he's a short-ass bitch," Simon grunted as he pushed the draped trolley down the corridor to the cargo lifts where they were less likely to cause a suspicious scene. Jesus remained largely unresponsive, barely reacting when the lift stopped halfway for a deliveryman wheeling in a heap of cartons. Simon and Judas breathed a sigh of relief when he left two floors before theirs.

When the doors opened at their stop, a petite woman decently disguised as a bellboy greeted them with a bright grin. "Took you long enough.” 

“Hey, Lydia. Thanks for turning up on short notice.”

Lydia was a former gangster's moll who had gone on to form her own crime ring of professional thieves and hustlers. She had remained good friends (and occasional fuckbuddies) with Simon long after they stopped running in the same circles. Then again, sometimes those circles collided; it was a small world, and he had plenty of shady characters on his current list of clientele.

"Haven't seen _you_ in a while," she added with a nod to Judas before noticing Jesus’ bruises and dazed expression. "Your boyfriend okay there?" She frowned in concern.

"Ex-boyfriend."

"Ah well, who knows? Things might work out." She winked. "Especially since you're clean now. Well, not counting all the rich dead pricks. You were doing the world a favour anyway.” She leaned in to get a closer look at Jesus. “Sure he doesn’t need a hospital?”

“He might.” Jesus shrank from her stare, and Judas threw her a warning look. “Back off.”

“Come off it, Jude. She means well.” Simon dragged the unconscious Annas onto the luggage trolley she had brought. "Nice job getting a uniform, by the way."

"Don't ask how I got it."

"You know I will. Just not now.” Simon helped her secure their captive by binding him to the trolley with bike cables. “How’s business?” 

“Booming. Made two new contacts recently, including an arms dealer.”

“Nicking jewels and hacking offshore accounts are getting boring, huh?”

She shrugged, “A girl’s gotta expand. Diversify. If you need more than the puny handguns you’re carrying now, let me know.”

“Not sure if we will. We’ve been going legit and all...well, Judas has. I’m still trying. This is probably our last ride.”

Her perpetual insolent grin widened. “That’s what they all say.”

With Caiaphas’ right hand man disguised as an oddly-shaped parcel on Lydia’s trolley, they made their way innocuously enough past the public eye until they came to Simon’s parked car and unloaded their baggage into the trunk. "Guess it's true what they say," Lydia commented, peeling open an eyelid to ensure Annas was still out. "Takes a thief to catch a thief."


	5. Culmination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neither can live while the other survives. May the best man win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story keeps going and it ended up a bit longer than I intended but this is def the second-last chapter :D

  
Caiaphas had been having a reasonably good day when the parcel arrived. For four whole blissful days, he had been free at last of Annas’ persistent efforts at attempting contact when he had already made it clear that he was unavailable until further notice. He had never liked the man, even while acknowledging that he made a very efficient second-in-command. For all their subtle loathing of each other, they made very good partners indeed.

But all good things must come to an end. Caiaphas had all but spelt out the temporary termination of their working relationship, and at long last the man had taken a hint. The brief respite from incessant texts, however, was broken by a surprise delivery in the mail. Ethan, his faithful (or at least very well-paid) assistant brought it to him as he was enjoying a pleasantly undisturbed breakfast.

He frowned as he unwrapped the small package. He had not ordered anything, nor had he given the address of this private, highly guarded residence to anyone. The layers of brown parcel paper revealed a smallish box that fit neatly in his hands. Someone had even put thought into the presentation; it was tied with a dark green ribbon. He shook it and heard the soft _thck-thck-thck_ of loose objects muffled by crepe tissue or a similar material. Whatever it was sounded harmless enough. There was no message attached anywhere in or on the parcel, and Ethan swore there was nothing else on it when he had retrieved it from the guard on duty.

The ribbon came off, then the lid. He jerked backwards, knocking its contents onto the floor. One of the two severed fingers rolled under the table; he couldn’t bring himself to retrieve it. 

“Ethan!” he called. The man entered shortly, his face calm despite the urgency in his employer’s voice. Beneath his clipped accent and sharp appearance, he was still the ruthless thug he had been before his intelligence and eloquence lifted him from the mire of common violence and into the white-collar criminal sphere. “Kindly clean up this...mess. I won’t make the mistake of opening unidentified parcels twice."

“As you wish.” Ethan picked up the fingers with barely more than a raised eyebrow. “Is someone trying to send a message, do you think?”

“Apparently so.” Just then his phone vibrated, making him twitch. His nerves were still shaken from the grotesque gift as he tentatively swiped his screen to view the message. The picture he saw made his blood run cold. It was Annas: half-naked, a red welt blooming his cheek, with what looked like a noose around his neck. There were rope burns visible on where it had tugged against his skin.

_-Be present on time at the given address, or you're next._

If the brief message left his blood cold, the one that followed turned it to ice.

_-Beware. Your manservant is not as trustworthy as he seems._

Caiaphas' breath hitched in his throat. Ethan? Surely the words were simply meant to unnerve him. "Rubbish. A stupid hoax, no more," he muttered to himself while ignoring the cold sweat breaking out on his neck and forearms. The severed fingers had been cold and fleshy as they brushed his hand before scattering on the floor. Had they belonged to Annas? He had a mad urge to take a long, hard look at them. To demand that Ethan dig them back out of wherever he had dumped or buried them.

He had less than twenty-four hours to decide. And each of those hours tormented him as he grew increasingly torn between ignoring the bait and taking it in hopes that it was better than the alternative. Of negotiating an arrangement with the mystery gift-giver. The thought was loathsome; if he’d had access to his usual resources, such threats would be laughable, their sender ‘taken care of’ within the day. 

He was already on the verge of making his decision when the final push came early the next morning, right after the second sip of his freshly ground brew.

Ethan, in his usual efficient manner, did not beat about the bush once Caiaphas heard him hit the buzzer and let him in. Caiaphas was hit with a brief bout of paranoia that the man might be hiding a gun, ready to shoot him right in the face — for the ominous message was still fresh on his mind. But Ethan’s hands were empty as he said what he came to say.

“Another parcel arrived about fifteen minutes ago. I had it thoroughly inspected.”

“And?”

“There was an eyeball inside.”

“Good God.” He felt the blood drain from his face.

“Shall I have it sent for tests, or dispose of it?”

“The latter. None of this leaves the compound. If any mention of these...special deliveries reaches the news, consider yourself retired."

“Understood.” Ethan nodded brusquely and left to take care of things.

By the end of that day, Caiaphas would discover that he had severely misjudged his assistant, whose slandered reputation was merely part of the plan to isolate him from the one person still on his side. The one person who stood to gain from helping him stay on top of the great pyramid he had built over the years.

But by the time he finally made that realisation, he would be far beyond reach of help.

~

  
  
Jesus had thankfully started speaking again during his hospital visit, saying no more than the bare minimum despite his previously unfocused eyes regaining some clarity. He remained largely silent on the drive back to his house, perhaps lethargic from the painkillers he had been dosed with so that he could breathe without hurting.

"Can you remember anything about the attack?" Jesus had volunteered only the barest of information during the examination, still withdrawn and unable or unwilling to recall most of the assault. There were concerns about brain damage, but he had adamantly refused any scans and tests, looking like he would collapse in on himself with any more pressure.

"I was getting into my car." He shifted in his seat, head slumped against the window. "I was grabbed from behind. It all happened so fast...I don't _—_ " His voice cracked, and Judas was compelled to reach out and take his hand. 

"It's fine. You don't have to… I'm sorry."

There was a stretch of quiet after that, and Judas thought he had dozed off when he spoke again. "You never apologized like that before."

"I'm pretty sure I must have."

"Not like you meant it."

Judas couldn’t help smiling a little, his heart lightening at a glimpse of Jesus being himself again. They must have had at least one argument that began or ended with an accusation of his inability to admit he was wrong. Not that Jesus was much better on that front.

He allowed Judas to accompany him all the way to the door, fumbling with the keys and dropping them twice before letting Judas unlock the door on his behalf. “I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured.

“Good, because I’m not going anywhere. Come on.” Judas had already decided he wasn’t leaving Jesus alone in such a state. Especially since the latter appeared to have no objection to his staying the night, letting Judas help him unlace his boots and carry him to the sofa when he started swaying on the spot. Judas couldn’t help noticing that he had lost weight, the bones of his shoulder blades more prominent than they should be. He mumbled something as he was lifted off the ground and his head fell against Judas' chest. It sounded a lot like "I still love you". 

Or perhaps it was just wishful thinking.

Judas wanted so badly to kiss him; his soft mouth was slightly, temptingly parted as he closed his eyes and let exhaustion claim him. He looked heartbreakingly lovely even with the bruises running across his eye and nose, ending in dried blood from a cut on his lower lip. He settled for kissing Jesus’ forehead, noting that the skin felt warm to the touch. “You’re not running a fever, are you?” he asked.

No response came; Jesus had fallen asleep minutes after his head hit the pillows, having surrendered to both the relief of escaping his ordeal and the effect of heavy analgesics. His neck felt suspiciously hot, his palms colder than they should be for the current climate. Judas made sure the throw blanket was tucked securely around his shoulders before collapsing onto the bean bag beside the couch, feeling suddenly and incredibly drained himself.

He jerked awake some two hours later, surprised to see it was only a little past eight pm. His phone was ringing. With bleary eyes, he made out Simon’s name on the screen. 

"What is it? You still with Annas?"

"Nah, we’re done. He was pretty cooperative. I think we're just about ready for the next stage of the plan."

"Great," Judas replied, finding that he lacked the energy to care at the moment.

"How's Jesus?"

"He started talking again, but he's a bit of a mess." He leaned forward to press a palm to Jesus' forehead, and noticed its warmth had intensified. "Might be down with something, too. He feels feverish."

"Ohh. Could be stress-induced.”

“I’m not leaving him alone in this state. Not for the next few days."

“Yeah, look, don’t worry about it. I’ll figure something out.”

“Don't stretch yourself too thin. I’ll spare a few hours when I can. Tomorrow, when he’s awake and better.”

“Sure, dude. We have at least a day. I just delivered the parcel. Hopefully we don’t have to send a second one.”

“Why, like we’ll run out of fingers and toes?”

“More like fridge space.” Simon chuckled morbidly before his tone softened a little. ‘I’ll drop by some time tomorrow to check on your boyfriend.”

“Ex…sure.”

“Alright, go catch some rest. You sound like shit warmed over.”

“Up yours.”

~

Annas emerged from the blackness with stone-heavy limbs slowly turning back to flesh and bone. He was lying facedown on cold concrete in a room lit only by a single lightbulb dangling from a wire. As his vision came into full focus, his eyes fell upon a long metal rod with a sharpened end lying inches from his face. 

Seeing the neatly bandaged stumps on his left hand where whole fingers had once been reminded him sorely that the past two days had not, in fact, been a long nightmare. His capture had been followed by an interrogation process that, while undignified and terrifying, had thankfully not resulted in more dismemberment. The worst that had happened was being stripped down and strangled until he wheezed for mercy.

After that, things had gone about as well as one could hope for. In exchange for his cooperation, his captors had been almost civil, even allowing him bathroom breaks and two meals a day. So it was a rather rude surprise when he realised too late that his last meal had been spiked. With heavy limbs he had blacked out and came to in this cold ugly cell, internally cursing the day he had chosen the wrong sacrificial lamb for the Echelon's altar.

A movement in the shadows caught his eye. He clambered to his feet, wanting to be ready in case the figure meant him harm. “Who’s there?”

The other man rose with some difficulty, as if he too had been incapacitated and dragged here by force. “So, we meet again,” said a very familiar voice.

“Caiaphas. They got you too?” 

“It would appear so.”

Annas was shaken. The Echelon had well and truly crumbled then, its beating heart ripped out and thrown onto the floor of this dim concrete prison. With the last of its once-untouchable members toppled, the death knell had sounded. The Echelon was effectively no more.

Caiaphas dusted off his sleeves and pant legs as if this whole affair was a great inconvenience at most, but as he edged toward the meagre pool of light in the centre of the small bare room, Annas saw that he had a black eye and drying blood on a split lip. “If you are in a sufficiently conscious state,” he said calmly, “perhaps you can help in looking for a viable exit. A window if not a door. Something.” He looked to the walls, scanning every visible corner.

“Why should I help you? Why should I do anything you say?” Annas balled his right hand into a fist. “You left me to the dogs and ran away like a coward at the first sign of trouble.”

Caiaphas shook his head and smiled. “Annas. I’m sorry if it came off that way. I’d already started going ‘off the grid’ early, likely long before you attempted to contact me.” he held up his hands. “What I’m trying to say is — well, it’s nothing personal.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“You’ll just have to trust me. At least until we’re out of here.”

_“That’s where you’re mistaken, Joseph.”_

They both jumped at the voice that came from somewhere above them, though from where exactly it was hard to say. It seemed to emanate from the entire stretch of ceiling, which was as dingy as the rest of the space and blotchy with leak stains. 

_“Only one of you will be leaving this room. The door will open for the one who survives the other."_

“Bollocks,” Annas hissed. As he stepped back, head whirling about, there was a metallic _clang_ as his foot hooked on something. He looked down and saw a second metal rod identical to the one lying next to him earlier. The pointy end looked nothing short of deadly.

_“There are two poles on the floor. You may use them as you see fit."_ The voice, Annas realised, was identical to that of his main interrogator. The man sounded even more obnoxious now, holding both prisoners in his sway from his god-like position.

_"But, to even out the odds — seeing as one of you has lost a few fingers — we took the liberty of handicapping the other too."_

"Ah, so that's the reason for this cursed thing." Caiaphas pulled at his right trouser leg to reveal a weighted cuff he evidently had no way of undoing. Annas realised he had been moving with a slight limp. As he ran his hands all along the shadowed walls, he found the edge of the locked door. He threw his shoulder against it to test its fortitude. It felt like thick, solid steel, no more penetrable than a bank vault without a passcode. There was no knob, lever or visible lock of any kind. Neither force nor skill could cheat the slab of metal that stood between them and freedom.

He looked down at the metal rod on the floor, and saw Caiaphas doing the same. "This is fucking bollocks. He just wants us to turn on each other," he whispered. "It's a trick, you see. A test. If we refuse, he'll see that we're not going to fall for his game."

"Of course." Caiaphas straightened his lapels habitually. "You're very likely right. You always were smarter than I gave you credit for."

"Thank you. I know we weren't always on the best of terms, but..." Annas shrugged amicably, all while inching subtly towards the rod. "I’ve always respected you. I may be mad about a few missed calls, but I'll get over it."

He forced a smile that Caiaphas returned with about as much sincerity. "Water under the bridge, eh?" he replied. 

"Water under the bridge." They stood with a gap between them where a handshake should be, neither eager to fill it. At last, Caiaphas — with a supercilious air of being the bigger person — held out his hand.

Annas took it, and felt the fingers clamp down on his hand, hard enough to crush. That was when he saw that Caiaphas had already grabbed the other rod.

He moved forward to stomp on the other's foot, causing just enough pain for the grip to loosen, and pulled away before grabbing the remaining rod and swinging it. Caiaphas dodged and swung his own. He hit the dangling lightbulb instead, causing it to swing back and forth, and cast dizzying shadows that Annas scrambled to hide in.

He was starting to realise that the room was not as small as it had looked at first, and there was plenty of darkness from which to ambush his opponent. While Caiaphas was disoriented from trying to stay in the moving halo of light, he tripped up the taller man with his foot and brought the rod down on the latter's head. But it was not the crippling blow he meant; having to use only one hand (the other useless for gripping) had lessened his force. He moved back hastily as Caiaphas rose, but the pointed end of the rod stabbed him in the waist — not enough to cause severe harm, but certainly enough to hurt. He groaned and doubled over, pressing a hand to his wound as he kept his eyes on the man he had once spent so much of his energy on polishing up, knowing the resulting radiance would reflect on him.

“I really do regret this whole circus, Annas,” said Caiaphas as he slowly circled the room, moving his weapon in a constant arc in an effort to keep Annas’ next attack at a distance. “Perhaps you regret throwing in your lot with me now. Still, we had some good times, eh? There’s no reason we can’t relive them. What do you say? Shall we call off this fight and figure out a way together?”

_Says the man who betrayed me with a handshake moments ago,_ thought Annas as he prowled low in his corner.

“Please don’t misunderstand what you saw, Annas,” he continued. “Granted, I was holding my weapon because I couldn’t trust you wouldn’t go for yours. But I can see now that it’s foolish for us to go on like this.” Caiaphas lowered his rod, but his hold on it remained firm. “Come out of the dark, Annas. Let us talk this out.”

As Caiaphas made another slow round, limping slightly from his weighted foot, Annas suddenly had an idea. It was a dangerous gamble. But the chances were good enough that he couldn’t afford not to take it. He threw his rod into a far corner, hard enough to make a loud clattering sound that drew Caiaphas’ attention to where it fell. Giving him enough time to pounce on the man while his back was turned.

“You little runt —” Caiaphas thrashed in an attempt to throw him off. He swung his weapon viciously, but it was impossible to hit his target while it was clinging to his neck, slowly strangling the air from his lungs. Once he was sufficiently breathless, Annas snatched the rod from him and let go, kicking him to the floor.

“You...ungrateful, lying little…aaaghh!” Annas hit his face with the blunt end of the pole once, twice, before stabbing him in the belly. He cried out and collapsed on his side, curling up in pain and fear, suddenly pathetic. 

“ _You’re_ the filthy little liar,” said Annas as he stabbed Caiaphas second time between the ribs, puncturing a lung with a satisfyingly fleshy sound. “But you taught me well. So _here’s_ the truth. I never respected you. But you’ve been useful to me...right until you made the mistake of running away."

Caiaphas tried to stop the pointy end of the pole from being driven into his throat, but his grip — despite having the strength of two hands — was no match for Annas’ force as he threw his shoulders into driving the metal in. Caiaphas made an almost comical choking sound as his larynx was pierced, robbing him of the ability to speak. He could still wheeze and gurgle, though. And he did plenty of both as Annas drove the sharp end in slowly but steadily. When Caiaphas finally breathed his last, he died with his eyes fixed on those of his murderer’s, staring and pleading uselessly.

“Like you said,” Annas whispered. “It’s nothing personal.”

Except it _did_ feel oddly personal. After all, they’d had a long and successful relationship. And he’d exacted his revenge for Caiaphas’ abscondment. By leaving Annas to his fate, he had sealed his own.

As Annas dropped the rod onto the lifeless body, a deep metallic echo filled the room, and a growing rectangle of light appeared in the dark. The door was open. Annas’ heart leapt. _I did it; I’m free._

_“Congratulations to the last man standing,”_ came the obnoxious voice from above. _“That was very entertaining indeed.”_

His stab wound made itself felt again in the wake of the adrenaline leaving his body. He almost welcomed the pain as he stumbled towards the light. But just before he made it out, a figure blocked his path. A man with eyes full of ice and fire. In his hand was something slim and sharp.

“Wait,” Annas said in alarm as the hand rose, its weapon gleaming faintly. “I _won._ I won, fair and square!!”

“You won nothing,” came the reply in a low growl. “All you did was open the door to let me in.”

The ice pick came down on his throat, and Annas realised in his last moments that he would die as Caiaphas had: choking on his own blood, staring helplessly into the eyes of his attacker.

  
  
  


The humid afternoon had simmered down into a mild evening, an occasional breeze ruffling their hair. Judas dragged the comforting heat of a cigarette into his lungs before exhaling it in a bittersweet cloud. The ice pick lay buried in the ground some distance away from the murder scene, along with the gloves and plastic layer that had prevented Annas’ blood from staining his clothes.

“So what do we do with the bodies?”

“Burn ‘em, I say.” Simon was ever eager at the prospect of starting a fire. “Unless you think we’re not done sending a message.”

“Oh, I think we’re done.”

“You’re really gonna go back to fixing cars after this?”

Judas shrugged. “It’s not a bad gig. I enjoy it.”

“Don’t miss the old days, do you?”

“Why, do you?”

Simon grinned. “I asked you first.”

He didn’t answer immediately. He felt like he had at last found a sense of peace that had been largely missing from his life since he could remember. After shooting Tomas in the head, Judas had been hounded by the Apostles still loyal to their fallen leader, while others had urged him to take the dead man’s place. In the end, loathing himself for his cowardice, he had fled across several states and laid low until he received news nearly a year later that the Apostles were history. But even after he had returned to eke out a normal living, the feeling of restlessness — and the lives he had taken to save his own — would haunt him every so often.

“You try being a hunted man and see how you like it.”

“I meant the days before. Our glory days, so to speak.”

“Nothing glorious about them."

Simon’s smile took on a wistful air. “Not after he left you, anyway.”

He shrugged, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and watched the setting sun through a haze of smoke. “There are other things to live for,” he said at last. Second chances to be taken. And, if he was lucky, regaining something precious he had lost but never truly left behind.

“I’m sure there are.” Simon winked and stomped out his used cigarette. “Well, come on, then. We got a cremation to be at.”


	6. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picking up and moving on. (A short chapter compared to the rest)

Reality was a slippery thing in the formless, throbbing heat of the fever that held him tight in its grip. The figure looming over him stretched tall and menacing, and for a moment he thought of the hooded phantoms come back to haunt him. It would be a long time before he forgot the smell and sounds of that incense-filled chamber.

In the throes of terror, Jesus lashed out weakly — _ "leave me alone please leave me —" _ before a cool hand grasped his own. A familiar, welcome voice washed over him, soothing and firm. "I'll take care of you. Everything's fine. You're safe now."

“Mary?”

“That’s right. I got you.”

"W-where's Judas?" he whispered.

"He'll be back in a few hours. Here; drink this." Something cool and sweet trickled down his throat. "Are you hurting anywhere?"

He swallowed, his dust-dry throat grateful for the drink. “Not really.” His head throbbed faintly in the wake of the delirium that had overwhelmed all other discomforts. With its claws no longer sunk into him, relief and fatigue took its place.

"Can you breathe alright?"

He managed a nod.

"Good. Rest now. We'll be around if you need us."

He never got to ask whom Mary meant by ‘we’. His body’s need for sleep dragged him back down into oblivion, and the last thing he felt was her able hands adjusting the pillows beneath his heavy head. He woke some time later to Matthew soothing his fevered flesh with a dampened towel.

“Was I hallucinating, or were you Mary a few minutes ago?”

Matthew smiled despite the worry weighing on his brow. “That was over an hour ago. I came by to help her; she needed to leave for her evening shift.”

His eyes stung from the light above, and he allowed his eyelids to fall back shut. “How did you two...how did you know…”

“That you were sick?” Matthew cooled his stinging eyes with the towel’s edge. “Mary called earlier today to announce that she was returning some books or something. Your ex-boyfriend picked up the phone instead. She said he seemed nice enough, if a bit...cagey. He asked if she could stay a bit and make sure you didn’t die. Said he needed to help a friend with something.”

“Thank you. You didn’t need to —”

“Shush. It’s fine.” Matthew frowned. “Why didn’t you tell us you’d been mugged?”

“I was...what?” 

“Mary asked how you got all these bruises. And a fractured rib besides. According to Judas, you were assaulted on the way to your car.”

He blinked in disorientation before absorbing the lie that saved him from having to divulge the full, unsavoury truth. “Yes. Judas rescued me. And Simon.”

“Why didn’t you let us know? I mean, not right away of course, you’d be in no state to...but still —”

“It’s fine. Matt. I’m okay now.” Someday, perhaps, he would have to reveal all that had happened: the sordid details surrounding his disappearance on the night of March the thirteenth. (Not even counting the crimes Simon and Judas had committed on his behalf.) But not right now. To be honest, he didn’t know where to begin. And he wasn’t sure if he wanted to alarm Matthew any further; or any of his friends, for that matter.

“You’re not exactly okay. Have you eaten yet?”

“Don’t know how much I can get down at the moment.”

“I’ll make you something, alright? You stay put.”

Enveloped by Matthew’s nurturing presence, Jesus let himself drift in and out of sleep until the aroma of something delicious pulled his senses back to wakefulness. His friend placed a bowl of something that smelt deliciously earthy and peppery on the coffee table that had been pulled close to the sofa. Matthew had cooked in his kitchen once or twice, sharing his own love for culinary explorations, and was evidently putting his experience to good use. 

“Is that mushroom soup?”

“It’s not that good. I rushed it a bit. Good thing your kitchen is pretty comprehensive, though; I managed to save it from being abysmal.”

Jesus was used to Matthew’s usual excessive modesty, and found that the soup was as appetizing as it smelled. “You’re too good to me,” he said softly. “You and Mary.”

“We’ve been worried about you. You’d seem fine one day and withdrawn the next, and we weren’t sure how much we should pry. We didn’t want to make things worse.”

“You did all you could do. I should show more appreciation…”

Matthew was about to stem the apology he knew was coming when his attention was turned by the click of the lock turning. The door opened, and Judas stepped in wearing a somewhat grim, haunted look. Matthew’s eyes wandered from the scar on his nose to the knuckleduster hanging from his belt (speckled with what looked like dried blood) and the ink crawling up the muscled arms, and wondered if the man had ever killed anyone..

He fixed his icy blue gaze on Matthew. “You’re Mary’s friend.”

“Yeah. Uhm. Name’s Matthew.” He held out his hand, then dropped it when no return gesture seemed forthcoming.

“Thanks a lot for coming over.”

“No prob. Jesus is my friend too.” Matthew gave a half-wave. “Uh, I’m gonna go. You’ll be alright?” he asked Jesus.

Jesus smiled. “I’ll be fine. Thanks, Matt.”

Matthew wondered how on earth someone like Jesus had fallen for such a character. But as he watched Judas cradle Jesus’ shoulders and rain concerned whispers over him, he decided he had probably misjudged the man. And after all, Jesus’ face never lied. And the way he looked at Judas told Matthew all he needed to know: a look of naked tenderness and love blossoming anew, like the first buds breaking through winter-hardened earth in search of sunlight.

  
  


After sleeping for most of the day, Jesus found enough strength to shower and change, and dine on the takeaway Judas ordered in. He even made mildly disparaging comments on the undercooked chickpeas, which Judas took as a good sign. “Did you bring enough clothes for another night?” he asked somewhat tentatively as he downed a last spoonful of rice.

“What, haven’t got tired of me yet?”

Jesus hesitated before speaking. “I missed you.”

“I was only away a few hours.”

“Shut up. You know what I mean.” Tears welled in his eyes, prompting Judas to hold him the way he needed to be held, giving him the closeness and comfort he had been hungry for without realising it all this while. The comfort his friends had extended in the wake of his trauma that he had been unable to fully accept, preferring to pretend nothing had happened to make him need it.

“I missed you too. Terribly,” said Judas, face half-buried in his hair. “Haven’t stopped missing you since the day you left.”

After a stretch of silence, he asked: “Were you ever going to tell me...about you and Simon…?”

“What about me and Simon?”

“Annas...he told me that — I don’t know if he was lying, but — that Simon was an...”

“A former Apostle?”

“So it  _ is _ true.” He shifted closer to seal the smallest gaps between them. “Not that it matters anymore.”

“Simon told me not to tell you. Back then, anyway. He didn’t want to jeopardise his friendship with you.”

Regret tinged Jesus' next words. "I shouldn't have pushed you away. I didn't agree with...I was too quick to judge — and I didn't mean to —"

"Don't say that. Don't...shhh." Judas tightened his embrace. "You were right to stand your ground. The life we led...it would ruin everything it touched eventually. You were right not to get involved. It's what Simon wanted too."

Jesus nodded mutely. He tried to stem his tears, but something inside him would not stop aching and howling, pushing the horrors he hadn't had the fortitude to face alone from deep within. The ugly sounds of need spilled forth and he could do nothing but sob until he was emptied at last of it all. Through it all Judas stroked his hair and kissed his forehead, a hand rubbing his back to help soothe the pain of his injured ribs that made themselves known with every heaving breath. He had never known such tenderness from the man he thought he knew every part of. Then again, he had not needed such depths of tenderness before.

He was utterly drained when the sobs finally subsided, nearly falling off the chair before Judas caught him, and laughing through the last of his tears at the stumble. He did not object when Judas carried him to his room and laid him on the bed, pulling the blanket over him. He felt safe and loved, and everything was finally alright with the world.

As a blossoming contentment swayed him into the edge of sleep, Judas rose to leave. His hand reached out before he fully realised what he was doing. And he knew once his fingers encircled Judas’ wrist that he didn’t regret it.

“Stay with me.”

“Alright.” Judas looked around for a chair.

“No...not like that.” Jesus let him go and shifted enough to clear a space on the bed. “Just for a while. Please.”

Judas hesitated as he slid beneath the covers. “You sure about this?"

“I mean. If you don’t want to, it’s fine.” Jesus averted his eyes, a flush creeping up his face that had nothing to do with his fever. Then all his doubt and awkwardness fell away when Judas’ arm drew him close and a hand tilted his face upward for a kiss. He sighed into the tiny gap between Judas’ lips and felt them widen to capture his more fully. Within seconds they were clinging to each other and as tightly entwined as if they had never left each other’s side.

~

A week later, Caiaphas and Annas were officially reported missing. Their disappearance would make headlines for months, not so much because they were particularly missed, but simply for the fact that — unlike the unfortunate men preceding them — their bodies were never found. None of their colleagues or peers appeared able or willing to volunteer any information. The sensational serial killer theories that had begun populating the internet after the fourth death took a twist; speculation about the next victim would burn on for a good while before finally flickering out when prominent politicians and tycoons ceased dying of unnatural causes. For now, however, the mythmaking surrounding the mystery murder continued to simmer and occasionally bubble with new theories.

“I would like to declare that we are officially known as The Pyramid Killer,” Simon proclaimed, thumbing through a Reddit thread that had come into existence shortly after the Acolyte Philip’s body was found at an abandoned construction site. He, Judas and Jesus were at a small friendly bistro near James’ house for what they called a ‘recelebration’ to make up for Matthew’s last birthday ending abruptly and tragically. 

“You wanna announce that a little louder?” Judas replied, rolling his eyes as he took a swig of his beer.

“Maybe I will, when the rest arrive.”

Jesus peered at Simon’s phone screen. “Why Pyramid though?”

“Because we worked our way up to the peak, from that snothead Jason Kohn to the top dog himself." He raised his voice in greeting. "Ahh, there they are.” He waved to Mary and the fresh-faced young man at her side. “So this is Peter. Mary can’t shut up about you.”

Mary whacked him in the arm. “He’s exaggerating,” she said to Peter. “Just a little.” She had started dating him a few weeks ago; they had hit it off within an hour of meeting, and by now were as good as steady. He grinned and stuck out his hand to make introductions as James, John and the birthday boy arrived.

“Are those Jesus’ famous red velvet cheese-stuffed cupcakes?” John exclaimed with glee.

“Yes they are. And now that you and Matt are here, I can finally grab one.” Simon reached out as Jesus swatted his hand away, biting back a grin. “Matt is supposed to have the first bite.”

“Ugh, _ fine.  _ If we’re gonna be old-fashioned like that.” Simon smacked Judas on the shoulder. “Aren’t you gonna introduce yourself? Or do we just call you Jesus’ Former Ex-Boyfriend? Bit of a mouthful if you ask me.”

Jesus had been concerned about Judas being comfortable enough with his friends, wondering if it was too soon for them to meet. His worries were nullified when his initially reticent lover warmed up after arguing with Simon over the latter’s apparently questionable move in a heated card game, and James got drawn into the argument, providing much amusement for all.

As for Simon, he cherished the enjoyably intense exchange complemented by the buzz of two beers chased by a string of mojitos. It helped distract him from the continual restlessness of being hounded by an itch he couldn’t scratch. If he were to be perfectly honest with himself, the past month or so had been a strange, heady journey that had gotten dangerously addictive toward the end. 

He had told himself at first that it was for good. That he was on a mission to avenge his friend, and to prevent such things from happening to more innocents. The world was better off without horrible, untouchable people in power. The problem, he had found, was with being very good at something very bad, like torture and murder. It was the sort of rush anyone would get from doing something well and knowing it, and seeing the results.

Except that Simon had never sought to be the Pyramid Killer. Or indeed any sort of killer. He knew that the best thing he could do was to quit the drug that had infiltrated his system and move on with his life. He looked to Judas, his hand clasped in Jesus’ own, and couldn’t help but envy him. Committing murder had been merely a means to an end for his partner in crime. His prize was a life with the man he loved at his side, free of the insidious forces who would disrupt that life.

And what, wondered Simon, was to be _ his _ prize? He had thought he’d feel thoroughly vindicated, happy for Jesus and his newly rekindled relationship, happy for the simply joys of booze with friends and watching Matthew tear up over the cupcakes. He had hoped these simple joys would drown out the dark bloodlust and the demons baying for a well-placed blow, a knife in a jugular, the dark vigilante dreams that made empty promises of exoneration. For the whole of the last week he had been on the verge of chasing fights and downing ungodly amounts of alcohol with the aim of being distracted from his restless state of mind. And it was more than a little frightening.

_ It’ll pass eventually,  _ he told himself. In the mean time, he’d simply have to try his best not to kill anyone. Unless they tried to kill him first.

James’ hand was on his back, pulling him back into the drinking game he had initiated. He smiled and allowed the demons to dissipate in the wake of the beckoning camaraderie. “What’s the poison of choice?” he asked.

“Matthew chose frozen margaritas.”

“Nice. Jesus, you joining us? Or are you just here to look pretty?”

Jesus shook his head. “I’ll stick to beer, thanks. You go ahead.”

Simon realised the reason for his reluctance to drink anything that didn’t come in a bottle. He sidled closer and put an arm around his friend. “Listen. It’s fine. We won’t let it happen again. Alright?”

Jesus managed a fragile grin. “Promise?”

Judas’ arm encircled his waist. “Promise,” he said. 

Buoyed by the warmth of their combined protective presence, Jesus returned the vow by leaning in to reach for Judas’ lips with his own. Simon waited patiently for a few long seconds before interjecting: “Okay, when am _ I  _ getting a kiss?”   
  


A few blocks away from the bistro where the friends were sliding deeper into loud raunchy jokes with each round of the game, a young man walked with a limp to the taxi he had hailed (the broken bones had not healed quite right, although the physiotherapist had hopes he would walk normally again after a year, if he kept up his exercises religiously). He had just had dinner with a small handful of old schoolmates he had not caught up with in a long time. In his single-minded quest of navigating the maze to the heart of wealth and power, he had left his formerly cherished friends by the wayside, barely remembering most of their faces anymore. Luckily, a few of them had not forgotten his.

Jonathan Amos knew he was fortunate indeed. He was the sole survivor of the popular anti-hero known as the Pyramid Killer, or Killers. While the rumours in various forums and conspiracy websites kept the flames of the urban legend well fanned, Jonathan remained the only living person closest to the truth. He did not know the faces of his tormentors. But he knew their voices all too well, occasionally hearing them in his dreams. And if he needed a reminder of what it took to keep the real voices at bay, he needed only look at his left hand, where the last two fingers were missing.

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, I started this tale for purely gratuitous whump reasons, and then it grew a plot before I could stop it. So if things get slightly messy along the way, do forgive me :D


End file.
